Disobliging Habits
by aevum245
Summary: [Harry/Draco]. A post-war Harry begrudgingly allows a disheveled Draco to live in his flat at the behest of Hermione. Piece-by-piece, Draco and Harry begin to scrape away at one another's cryptic pasts. Featuring muggle books, well-prepared meals, and some hard-hitting left hooks. Warnings inside. (Republished Story; In progress)
1. The Celestial City

**Title: Disobliging Habits**

 **Author:** aevum245

 **Rating:** _**MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY**_ for explicit language, ideologically sensitive material, violence, and intense sexual content.

 **Warning(s):** Slash, minor character death, mentions of rape, abuse, and sexual assault.

 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and various situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. This piece of fiction is used for entertainment purposes only and retains no intentions of soliciting for cash value or profit. I claim no ownership of the created characters nor their affiliated backgrounds and information. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Author's Note (PLEASE READ): This story was posted originally 3 years ago under the title "Lack of Color" and was never updated nor completed. I have taken down the original and republished the story under this new title. There have been some edits made to reflect what I imagine is more sophisticated writing. I intend to carry this story to it's completion this time around. I will be updating approximately every two weeks. I hope you enjoy it! I am truly looking to improve my writing (hence my return to this story), so please be sure to leave feedback if you have any.**

Chapter One - _The Celestial City_

Some of your hurts you have cured,  
And the sharpest you still have survived,  
But what torments of grief you endured  
From the evil which never arrived.  
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The final days of Spring were unquestioningly warmer than normal. The populous of London streets busied themselves with ice cream and the sing-song melody of the endemic mockingbird. Flowers and other vegetation were the only witness to the suppressed wild-life which clung to to the shadows in awe-inspired fear. The lights of the city dazzled and sparked, blinding a deer here or startling a raccoon there. Every once in a while, an unfortunate rabbit would surmise the courage to bound across one of the many vast London streets. In one lamentable moment, the life of the innocent would be whisked away by the heart of human progress. A little boy brandishing wicked blond hair and inquisitive emerald eyes stopped to stare at the fresh carcass of the poor animal, suddenly losing interest in his dessert. A small frown is all he can manage before his mother whisks him away to join the rest of humanity in their monotonous agenda.

The sun was nearing its descent from view and, like clockwork, the bright lights of the city exploded over the horizon. Defying natural law, no man or woman was deterred by the loss of the sun and pranced around the gravel with little remorse for its twelve-hour leave. A corner cafe' explodes with the sound of rock music. A brawl begins just outside a local pub. Children chase each other in a domesticated park. A group of women gossip about the new neighbors quirks and idiosyncrasies. The lights still shine; each a star in a crowded constellation. A slender brunette shuts his curtains to hide from the celestial city.

Harry James Potter turned from the bleak window to his contrastingly dimmed living room. The flat rested comfortably on the third floor of a relatively new housing complex residing near London's busy streets. The noise didn't bother Harry. No, the noise made him happy. The speeding cars and laughing children reminded him that life went on without his presence. But the _lights_! Those damned _lights_!

He sullenly sunk into his black and blue laced armchair and breathed through his nose with manual restraint. As any nobody would notice, time did not treat the Wizarding World's "wonder boy" too lightly. Within a mere six years of the Second War's conclusion Harry had contracted numerous frown lines, a few fairly obvious gray hairs, and aged, sagging eyes. The only thing that seemed to stay the same about his visage was his stature. Miraculously, he had managed to keep in decent shape despite little physical exertion. Hermione told him he was lucky to have a metabolism with a black belt. Nonetheless, the lines around his eyes and the early-onset aging process made The Boy Who Lived much more unsightly than one would expect with a title so honored. He fingered his belt loop on his trousers, trying to busy his fidgety fingers.

Nagging agitation and annoyance prodded at the young man's temples. He shook a small orange and white cigarette from his pant pocket carefully and near-silently. An orange lighter with scratch marks grasped tightly in his shaky left hand, Harry struck the wheel. A stationary ball of flame exploded from the tip, superseding the initial spark. The paper caught flame and whispy clouds appeared from the end. Harry grimaced as he took one slow, drawn-out puff of the nicotine roll.

He did _not_ enjoy this 'filthy habit', as he titled it. He scowled at Ron for it and refused to allow anyone see him perform it. The call of the nicotine claimed him when the well of anxiety once again began to fill with fierce sea-water. The waves always brought along with them undesired recollections and memories. " _No sailor was ever made strong on a calm sea." 'Screw the sailor. I don't have sea-legs.'_ His only other consolation was the whiskey which rested comfortably in his kitchen. Once his urges would resurface, Harry would gladly down the harsh liquid and pass out on any surface his flat allowed. Harry glanced around his painfully familiar surroundings to avoid all conflict with reflection. Not that he was one who could easily avoid any type of conflict. Danger was the hunter; he the north. The compass always pointed towards him. Disarm the magnet; confuse the hunter.

'I wonder how the Bermuda Triangle is this time of year?'

The walls were painted a deep red and complimented the low lighting. The kitchen, also low lit, was a dull amber and bled into the darker red of the living room. A few scattered oak tables and chairs surmised the decor and were nothing profound. A tall teak cabinet stood in the back corner near the drawn window. Muggle books lined the shelves, but on the top shelf - where no one could see without standing on a stool of some kind - a small chest contained the last remnants of Harry Potter's Wizarding Life. Remnants is a strong word. They didn't survive; they didn't prevail, either. They just _were_. Is that too bloody hard to understand?

The keys to the Black and Potter family vaults, the Peverell family Invisibility Cloak, a few Wizarding textbooks, and his eleven inch Holly wand with a phoenix feather core were the only items in his immediate possession. The only other magic related object was his floo-infused fireplace that was only routed to The Burrow and Ron and Hermione's house in Scotland. Harry attempted to avert his eyes from the chest, but he could not tear his attention away from it's alluring aura. He tried to admire the items it contained, yet he only felt malice and rage fill his heart at the thought of their presence.

The television set was on and some arbitrary soap opera filled the otherwise silent abode. The single-touched cigarette burned to ash and Harry stood to dispose of it in the exquisite fireplace. A thump sounded from somewhere and Harry flicked his head to the door in horrified shock. As if someone had flipped a switch - a broken switch, like the kind you see in an 80's horror movie - in his head, Harry rushed to the treacherous wooden door. His shaky hands unlocked, locked, unlocked, locked , unlocked the mechanisms. If the door dare betray him, he was comfortable burning it. Set the fire; burn the witch! _Lock ,unlock, lock, unlock._

His breath became raspy and stretched out. Once he was certain the door would not betray him, he ran a trembling hand through his unruly hair. _Sea legs...sea legs. Can you buy those online?_ Tapping his feet he settled back down to watch the television. Fidgeting fingers shuffled through the seemingly endless channels with seemingly endless apathy.

" _President Ruthorford announced the United States' Senate's Declaration of War today..."_

Harry flinched. Let's avoid contemplation on this bright evening. He quickly and efficiently changed the channel to a harmless episode of a 90's sitcom with a surface-level plot. His eyes once again distracted, and the television was put to little use. Funny how one little word makes its way around the brain. Down the ear canal and straight into the cerebral cortex. Can it affect the hippocampus; make it remember things it doesn't want to? His frontal lobe sure thought so. But the brain anatomy is just so bothersome.

Without warning, the telephone rang

"Hello?"

Yes, this is he.

Not interested.

Thank you, Ma'am, but I'll have to pass.

Have a pleasant evening".

Almost immediately following, the phone rang once more.

"Ma'am, I told you I'm not inter-".

An excited yelp sounded on the receiver and Harry bit his lip in surprise. The line cut off and he was left to stare at the phone in complete bewilderment.

* * *

He found him. He actually found him. Draco almost smiled. His labors did bear some fruits, which was a huge relief. Relief wasn't exactly an emotion he was too familiar with the past few years. It was strange to feel. His shoulders felt less heavy, as if an invisible burden had released its grasp- albeit reluctantly. With great care, he placed the strange muggle device back on its metallic pedestal. He still wasn't entirely sure how the black wires and speaker box worked, but, without a doubt in his mind, the voice he had heard belonged to the man he was searching for. Funny how the brain works. Remembering the things you don't want to remember and forgetting the things you do.

But it worked out for the best in the grand scheme of things. ' _Right? But who's scheme?'_ More importantly: What is the grand scheme of things? Is it his life, the life of the Malfoy, or perhaps the life of everyone he now stood around? What did they offer to his destiny? ' _You don't even believe in fate, you twit.'_ Charming fancy to entertain nonetheless.

The ragged blond boy stood awkwardly and out-of-place in a corner telephone booth on one of London's many crowded streets. He tried, and failed, to ignore the judgmental stares of those crowded around him. He felt their eyes like daggers in his back. Breathing heavily and attempting to focus, a worn Draco Malfoy produced an equally worn scrap of paper from his robe pocket. A list of numbers and unfamiliar addresses was scrawled nearly illegibly across the margins. Five address-phone number combinations were scratched out furiously. Draco circled the number he had just dialed and its corresponding address with great joy. His eager and unrested hands shuffled themselves around the paper, creasing it in three places like his father had done so many times with his top secret business letters. He remembered seeing him fold letters with care so many times when he was a young boy, peering in on the patriarch's study.

That recollection stung at the youngest Malfoy as he attempted to keep his mind oriented on the task at hand. He stepped cautiously out of the sauna of a telephone booth into the cool breeze of London evenings. With his head held low, he beelined towards the nearest bus stop. Many dangerous and heavy thoughts loomed over the young man's head, yet he still managed to walk with purpose and stride. Attention from on lookers seemed to radiate towards him. Draco began to feel extremely uncomfortable with the painful stares of muggle common-folk. Sweat appeared on his furrowed brow. ' _Lovely. As if you didn't stick out enough.'_

Just as he arrived at the nearest street corner, a tall red monstrosity similar to the smaller four-wheeled contraptions the muggles rode in pulled to the curb with a wheeze and a clunk of an engine. A large roar and hiss left the doors as they opened wide to swallow the men and women waiting patiently for their turn. Draco's eyes bulged from his head, and he desperately tried to keep calm. He repeatedly told himself that the mechanism would not cause him harm. This self-assurance did little to calm his quivering stomach which threatened to betray his dignity and release his lunch (or lack thereof) onto the street. As the muggles began to board the monster, Draco joined them from the rear with great trepidation. He delved into his shallow pockets as he ascended the clanking stairs. He pulled out the last of his muggle money and looked for a slot to place the coins. He was glad to be rid of the filthy currency that had been clattering in his pocket, drawing more stares as he walked down the confusing London landscape.

"Hey, buddy, you gonna pay or what?" A disgruntled driver practically growled at the odd blond fidgeting with his fingers. Draco felt his skin crawl and his heart skip a beat. The driver grunted and motioned towards a small basket with coins in it.

"Uhm. Coin...slots?" Draco offered in hopes of finding a more secure location for the last of his muggle money, ensuring his destination would come from this ride alone.

"It's broken. Just use the fucking basket, mate." growled the bus driver.

To avoid all conflict, Draco threw the last of his money into the basket and apologized to the increasingly pissed-off driver. As the bus started, Draco hastened to a seat and sunk towards the window.

His attempts to conceal himself did not go well.

"You're not from around here, are you mister?"

Draco's eyes dilated. His heart rate once again managed to increase as his thoughts raced in his head. Did they find him out already? What was going to happen to him? He _couldn't_ go back! Biting his sore tongue he turned his head to face the source of his interrogator.

A girl about the age of eleven sat swinging her legs on the tall bus seat with a questioning look on her dreadfully cute and round face. Her auburn hair was tied into two pigtails, and she radiated a childish innocence. Draco practically reprimanded himself for being so afraid of as harmless a creature as her. His face turned a little red and he opened his vice-gripped mouth.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his voice cracking from neglect. The little girl giggled and he frowned back.

She scrunched her nose to answer his question; "You're dressed funny!", she said with bubbling laughter. Her laughter bubbled out of her like the froth at the top of a soda just freshly opened. Draco allowed a 'tuh' sound to pass his lips. He had no choice but to agree with her. Relative to those on the London streets, Draco stuck out like an apple in a stack of oranges. His dress robes had become quite the deterrent to his supposedly discrete plan.

"And," the little girl ventured, "You're looking for something". She smiled at him and sneaked lithely into his the seat next to him. Draco flinched, but he did not take his ever-watchful eyes off of her.

"Looking for something?" he said in a whisper. "How do you figure that?". A small giggle once again sounded from her saintly lips.

"You're lost. I can tell. My daddy says men don't look lost unless they're looking for something!". She swelled with pride and her smile reached her pointy ears. Draco laughed to himself and shook his head. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. the sound was curdled and ran across the skin like a cold cloth. A few seats ahead, a middle-aged woman shivered lightly.

"Your father sounds like a very smart man." Draco told her, exhaling loudly. Look at me, he thought, complimenting bleeding muggles. _What have I become_? Let's not open up that particularly terrible rebranding of Pandora's box, Draco.

"So...What _are_ you looking for, mister?"

"Nothing".

"Everyone's lookin' for something".

Draco stared at her blankly. This girl was becoming quite irksome.

"An old...friend." he prompted. The blonde nearly choked on the last word. The small girl frowned; It didn't look pleasant on her, Draco concluded.

"Why did you lose him?".

"I'm sorry?".

"If you're looking for him that means you must have lost him". Her face was intent and focused on Draco's. He snorted but her expression did not soften. He suddenly realized, as if it hadn't been obvious, that it wasn't a rhetorical statement. Apparently this conversation was meant to continue. He silently wondered how long it had been since someone had asked a question of him.

"I...well...we didn't always see eye-to-eye all the time." he drawled, though it didn't contain the confidence that it once did. Draco attempted to suppress his laugh but failed miserably. _'Under-exaggeration of the century.'_ he thought caustically. The girl ignored his laugh and continued with her question reel.

"Oh, okay. Is that why you're so nervous?".

His eyes narrowed at the ever-increasing pain in the arse seated next to him. This girl was too inquisitive for her own good. In quiet disbelief he shook his head as the bus reared on. He soundlessly smoothed his robes trying his best ignore the difficult question. He settled on a vague answer in an attempt to satiate her curiosity, which he seriously doubted would happen.

"Yes. It is one of the reasons I'm a bit nervous." Draco shook the words out like marbles from a bottle. The girl scrunched her little nose again and it quickly became irritating to Draco. She digested his words and her eyes lit up like a full moon. Draco was quite startled.

"OH! I know!" She was bouncing on her tiny pink hands. "My daddy said when he first met mama he was really nervous, too! He said he counted backwards from ten, and when he got back to zero, he was calm and ready to face the world!" Her excitement and energy was a blinding contrast to Draco's downtrodden mood and expression of complete dissatisfaction. He almost drowned in her enthusiasm. _There are worse ways to go_.

He made an attempt to blink away the initial shock. "Uhm...I'm not sure if that will solve anything." He chose his words carefully.

Not careful enough, however.

A sharp noise akin to that of a squeaky grocery cart erupted from the small character. "B-But, Mister! You _have_ to! You just have to!" She was on the edge of her seat and on the verge of tears. The last thing Draco needed was a blubbering muggle child on his hands. Desperately, he tried to calm the girl.

"Alright," he shouted the words, "I promise!".

He stared at her while she fidgeted with a stray strand of hair. Curiosity overwhelmed him. He made to ask her a question, but the bus reared to a complete halt.

In a hurry he jumped out of the seat. In his haste, he had only one glimpse back at the crowded bus to attempt and get a look at the small brown-haired figure. She was staring out the window now, swinging her legs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

* * *

The bus lurched away from view and Draco turned to gaze down the desolate street. Not a face turned to stare at his rugged figure nor his overdressed attire. The night hung gloomily above his head and pressed like a dumb bell on Draco's weak shoulders. No moon shone above to guide his path, but the dim street lights guided his path down the chalked-up sidewalk

 _10_

He urged his feet forward and gulped at the realization of his current endeavors. For a moment he thought of turning around but pushed forward with great self-persuasion. _left foot, right foot, left foot._

 _9_

Draco saw a dead rabbit in the street and sympathized with it.

 _8_

His feet began to numb, but he knew it was now or never. We shall see if the Wizarding World's Savior had some saving left in him.

 _7_

The apartment complex was quiet and near silent. He opened the double doors and gasped sharply when a loud creaking noise burst from the hinges.

 _6_

The staircase seemed to go on forever. Number 356 played over and over again in his looping mind. Draco's thoughts quickened, but his heart was winning the race. He felt his heart ache to burst from the worn flesh of his chest.

 _5_

Fear. The emotion gripped him and the walls seemed to close in around him, suffocating and stealing his breath. The stairs shouted at him as he pushed down on them with heavy feet. _'What the hell am I doing here?'_

 _4_

Draco considered turning around once more, but his iron-weighted feet refused to connect with his dark thoughts of retreat. _346,347,348..._

 _3_

The weakened blond figure stood like a gargoyle chipped away from the tower of babel itself, long after it turned to rubble. The wooden door was labeled with gold-painted numbers stuck to the exterior. He read the number 356 over and over again. His knees went weak and cowardice plagued his heart.

 _2_

 _Knock once. Knock twice. Knock thrice. Who's door are you actually knocking on? Death? Death's treacherous son? Perhaps nothing at all. No door, no house, nothing. Always nothing._

 _1_

"Who's there?"

 _0_

Harry heard the knocks at the door. He didn't appreciate their presence, yet he was made to hear them all the same. They were tantamount to something he'd read once in an Edgar Allen Poe poem. Not that it matters much; Harry hated birds.

 _'Who doesn't hate birds?'_

He muttered a half hearted "Who's there?" while staring down the door as if it was to blame for the intrusion. Harry glanced at the antique clock and frowned. It wasn't mail at this hour and the only people with gaul to visit him would floo in. Besides, he hadn't heard any news of visitors. The idea of ignoring the potential guest was quite appealing; however, his last remnant of courtesy seemed to be bubbling up in the wake of his alcohol consumption. His gut was telling him a decision to open the door would be catastrophic. Harry was almost certain that whatever lied on the other side of his worldly barrier would be the culprit of his almost certain suffering. He rarely gained happiness from the outside world. Doors that are forced opened cannot be closed.

Harry wondered when he had started to revert towards broken logic in order to validate himself.

He felt numb but reluctantly allowed his feet to glide him to the door. He stood there for a moment or two. His alcohol-induced bravery drained away from him. A shivering hand grazed the lock and pulled back as if it was engorged in fire. He bit his lip and clenched his fist at his sides. The uncut nails sank into the flesh but the only emotion he could feel was shame. One slow sorrowful step at a time, Harry backed away from the door and retreated to his armchair. The door stared back at him, unmoving. It's funny, really, the emotions an inanimate object can provoke in any given person. Harry had become rather susceptible to unwanted emotions these past few months.

"Don't look at me like that..." he muttered under his hoarse breath. Tilting his head back, the black-haired boy imbibed the rest of the whiskey, scorching his raw throat as it slid down the path to his empty stomach. Harry fought violently against the urge to get sick all over the coffee table in front of him. His stomach turned something vile, boldly pulsing behind his scarred skin. He was surprised his world-weary flesh was not yet used to the mistreatments he so frequently inflicted onto himself.

The bottle slipped from his hand and he brought his knees to his chest, resting his heavy head on one knee. The bottle rolled noisely across the stained carpet to rest against a pile of congruent bottles. He didn't have the energy to be disgusted in himself. Instead, he allowed, the comfort of darkness to surround him and he slowly faded into the sweetness of a dream-less sleep. 


	2. Den of the Lion

Chapter Two - _Den of the Lion_

Harry awoke the next morning sprawled across the increasingly uncomfortable floor. A small drool puddle turned the carpet to a darker fringe around his mouth. His eyes fluttered open at a snail's pace; this scene was all too familiar. This time around he half-considered not getting up at all, but the unbearable pain in his lower back had a whole other plan. He swallowed hard and scowled at the sandpaper feeling of his abused throat. As if the psychological damage from the previous night's actions weren't deplorable enough, now he had to live through the alcohol-induced throbbing in his temples which threatened to burst the contents of his skull out onto the carpet below.

Rolling onto his back, he heard his bones crack and muscles pop in places where they probably shouldn't have. A large groan forced itself out of his lips and the world flashed with multi-colored dots at the sudden and unwanted movement. Harry rolled his head to the bottles. "Are you happy?", he groaned. He suffocated a thought which questioned to whom he was speaking.

His hand reached blindly for support and the shaking fingers found a way to grasp onto the couch as Harry slowly, but surely, forced himself to his feet. His body felt like giving up, yet he managed to find asylum from self in the dimly lit kitchen. In his near-blind stupor, Harry miraculously set the tea pot on the stove, avoiding burning himself. He pulled out the tea bags and multiple pills in an attempt to quell his insanely painful ailments. Busying one hand with his preparations, he set out with the other at fruitless attempts to sooth his aching lower back. Once all was set he leaned against the cupboard near the door. His breathing had no regular pattern, for the lungs refused to follow the rules of average pulmonary behavior this fine morning. Rules of the body and mind were meant to be bent, broken and shaped. Shattered and morphed until they were nothing but dust dust dust dust dust dust dust dust dust dust. The word ticked on in Harry's mind.

 _'Dust. Dust. Dust. Dust. Dust. Dust.'_

The flame flickered on the stove, licking at the metal teapot. Harry smiled in spite of himself. The flames reminded him of her. The fiery exterior with a soothing center was just like the young woman who had first made him feel like he had some sort of family.

But when you touch fire, your hands get burned. _Dust Dust Dust Dust Dust Dust Dust_.

Harry's head was now throbbing with unbearable pain. His brain busied itself by bending the rules along with his traitorous lungs- partners in unforgivable crimes. He considered interrogating them for their delinquent behavior, wondering how many years a set of lungs would be locked up for fraud- or perhaps vandalism. Harry digressed realizing that the brain would easily hold its own in court. That was the organ's occupation after all- getting out of messes. By that logic, Harry considered, his brain was quite lousy at its job. His job? Her job? _My job?_

He'd give anything to be surrounded by the dreamless darkness right about now. He grimaced at the cupboard where it lay open. Not one bottle of whiskey was left. _'All to dust dust dust dust dust dust dust.'_

Harry swallowed the saliva gathering in his mouth, grimacing at the pain. The physical agony was edging its way up the raven's shivering body. The tea seemed to take ages, and it permitted Harry's mind to drift towards uncomfortable thought progressions which were not on his to-do list for that day. Things the brain could definitely be locked up for. Consider war crimes, homicide (of childhood that is), and the High Crime of Treason. Lock and shackle with forgotten memories and the bones of the dead. Wash the blood with blood; Repent for sin with sin. Seal him up tight where he can't bend the rules again. Drown in your self-perpetuated remorse. Possibly make some _Shaw-Shank Redemption_ -esque recriminations towards the heart who promptly reminds you this isn't a Stephen King novel. Damn the heart. Damn it for its silly emotions. He's the real culprit here. Blame the brain all you want; the heart is the master-mind. He laid the plans, sent the man, brought the dagger - a wand in this little exercise - and walked away without burden. Yet he doesn't feel the need to be ensnared in this place. ' _It's not fair.'_

Nothing about the previous night seemed to be in his recollection. He didn't even know the date. Not that knowing would bring him any sort of comfort. He had become rather complacent living in a state of senseless ignorance. Ignorance is bliss and what not.

Which was bullshit. Plenty of ignorant people are very sad; plenty of people are sad. Ignorance could be numbing, however. And that was a lot more promising than bliss.

His nomadic eyes wandered to the calendar.

If he had to guess, it was probably Saturday - grocery day or perhaps a day of reckoning. What's in a name anyway? Tuesday, Thursday; they're all the same. Just another day and another night. ' _Dustdustdust.'_ Leaving for the grocery store was an endeavor of Harry's precarious past. He paid the fee to have his groceries delivered to his front door so he wouldn't have to bother making the trip on his lonesome. Or at least that's what he told Hermione. In reality, he was terrified of the trip to the store and refused to make it himself. He would put that burden on the muggle teenager paying his way through university. He figured grabbing the box of groceries waiting outside his door as quickly as possible would be a difficult task with his aching back; however, Harry knew it had to be done. It's not like he could just sit in here and starve. Hermione would be so displeased to floo in and find him dead from self-denial. _'Dust Dust Dust dust dust dust dust.'_

He figured semantic satiation would make the idea less real. Less of something we become. Simply a sound, a feeble utterance into the void. He ignored the fact that he had not actually said the word out loud.

Without any remembrance of the night's previous events, Harry made his way over to the door to which his flat lead to the complex's hallway. He clenched his left hand into a fist as his right busied itself with the intricate locking mechanisms. His lungs expanded and filled with oxygen to prepare his mind. Roughly, he swung the door open.

To say Harry was _shocked_ would be a slight understatement. Words fail to describe the cluster of emotions which suddenly and viscerally ravaged his war-torn heart. Collapsed in a heap a mere foot from his door way was a pale blonde creature. His clothing was worn and was much too common than anything Harry had previously seen him wear. His eyes were shut tight, and he appeared to be in some state of unconsciousness - not necessarily sleep. His knees were folded in a rather disturbing way that seemed more than simply uncomfortable. Harry was further shocked to see no shoes on his feet. Holed socks were his only cover from the elements. The boy's hair lacked its usual gratuitous sum of gel but was more than compensated by a large quantity of natural grease. Draco Malfoy wasn't looking like his primed self as of late, it would seem.

Without warning, a pair of ghastly grey eyes fluttered open from the blonde figure. They were framed by ghoulish cheekbones and a fair share of premature frown lines that made the boy's appearance revolting. In his head, he emphasized each syllable like a firework going off over his inner dialogue:

' _Dust. Dust. Dust. Dust. Dust'_

The ghastly eyes forfeited their place of potential safety and glanced up at Harry.

To make yet another under-exaggeration, Harry panicked. He was perfectly content with ignoring the reality of the figure outside his doorstep. To see it animate with human motion, however, choked his breathing passage-ways and shook his nervous system. Cortisol and adrenaline flooded his veins; he could feel his heart rate sky-rocket and fleeing tactics ran across the forefront of his thoughts. His head started to feel light, feverishly trying to separate from his neck. The blonde pulled its head from the ground and sat on its knees. Impractically, his stress managed to increase.

"Potter?"

The fireworks had ceased. He could no longer frame that word he had meant to say. He could no longer recall it. It meant nothing now; it was nothing. There was only one word could he even muster to conceptualize.

 _'Shit.'_

* * *

'Well, this must be an interesting sight' Draco thought.

He wished the raven-haired boy would stop staring at him like he was covered in blood and sweat. It was quite alarming. He wasn't entirely sure how he ended up where he was; last night's events were blurred together and didn't seem to create a continuous stream of events. The last clear memory he could piece in his mind was his frantic phone calls in a London telephone booth. Now he had managed to find himself on his knees at the front side of "The Great Harry Potter". He sneered internally. That title did not seem to reflect the true form of the man that stood before him.

He didn't look so "Great". In fact, Draco decided, it was quite obvious that the years had been much less kind towards Potter than towards him. Potter's gene pool wasn't the most elegant of the bunch, especially when compared to the physically flawless bloodline of the Malfoy name. He gazed at the raven from his position on the carpet.

His hair was longer than he remembered but still as unruly as ever. When the light shined just right, however, he caught glimpses of a few grey hairs. His clothes were drab and didn't look like they were to be worn in public situations. His face was pulled back into a shocked expression that worried Draco slightly. What troubled Draco the most, though, about his appearance was the lack of ardor in the raven's eyes. He furrowed his tired brow and tried to create a coherent sentence to explain his presence. At this point, he still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing in front of Harry Potter's flat. It seemed like a good idea at a previous moment in time.

"If you plan to kill me, know that I have my wand just across the room. If I don't manage to reach it, Hermione will be here this afternoon and will notice my disappearance. Knowing her, it won't take long to trace my murder back to you." Draco looked up.

"Excuse me?" he ventured.

"You heard me".

He didn't mean to laugh. It was truly inappropriate, but he just found this situation too surreal. It was almost preposterous for Harry to think that Draco was in any condition to harm anything- let alone a man as capable as Harry. He wasn't so naive' to believe that Harry hadn't the skills to hex him back to last Thursday nor was he willing to attempt to harm the potential source of salvation.

The idea occurred to him, however, that his presence warranted absolutely no explanation. That part of his under-developed plan had never exactly been thought out. It came with the territory of being an under-developed plan after all. No wonder Potter felt threatened. It's not every day an ex-Death Eater shows up at your doorstep. The existence of their bitter rivalry throughout their Hogwarts' years probably didn't ease the tension either.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, his shoulders still shaking with his hollow laughter. He was beginning to see that maybe Potter wasn't his best choice in seeking salvation. But what's a good choice without a few bad ones to ruin it? The rhetorical question was, of course, useless. This was his last chance, afterall.

"Murder you? Is that what you think I'm here to do?" Draco drawled out the words without hesitation. He saw Harry's glare which truly made his blood chill. He allowed a silent smirk grace his lips

"Be careful where you point that scowl, Potter. If your memory has so retreated from you, my family practically wrote the book on condescending looks". Draco had hoped that this would possibly come off as humorous to the man standing across from him. Instead he saw a nerve nearly pop from Harry's forehead. Draco decided that he was in fact not upset that the almost-joke did not please scarhead; he had forgotten the simple joy of pissing Potter off. Without warning, the door suddenly slammed shut, and he heard heavy footsteps stomp into the room behind it. A lopsided grin was plastered on the blonde's face.

He sensed that now was not the time to bare his teeth at the den of the lion. But good senses and Potter rarely mixed, as the case would be.

Draco called out into the doorway, "If you plan to just ignore me, you should be aware that I am a very patient man now. I could be out here for days". That, of course, was a terrible bluff that he knew he could never follow through with. He was amazed at how easy it was to fake calm when talking down to someone like they were a child.

A loud muffled groan sounded through the wood.

 _Lock the door; throw away the key._

* * *

Harry's mind was not capable of much at the moment. It found solace in piecing together profanities in one long string to be repeated over and over again. It did little to calm his beating heart, sweating hands, and bruising headache. Every object in the room suddenly became treacherous. His raving arms swung at a lamp on his untidy end table. It toppled over and shattered rather loudly as it came in contact with the amber wall. Plaster pieces fell to the floor and made tiny shouts at Harry in a rueful manner.

There was very little surprise in Harry's isolated life which was to his great satisfaction. This event, however, broke that calm which he was so familiar. He could almost feel his blood pressure soar. He dared to fathom that what had just occurred was a figure of his anxious and guilty conscience. Maybe he had a split personality? Rare occurrences had a habit of forcing themselves upon Harry so that notion wasn't completely baseless.

He now found himself leaning shakily upon a cabinet. Adrenaline and whatever the chemical equivalent of sheer terror is pumped vigorously throughout his veins. Foolishly, Harry attempted to restrain his staggered breathing, to which no such luck was afforded. Escape plans and strategies began to stream through his conscious mind once again. To his utter horror, a muffled voice called from beyond the villainous doorway.

"Temper, Potter." the voice taunted.

Two words and Harry suddenly felt a beast awaken within his hollow chest. An unfathomable rage burst from the nothing, and immediately disseminated across his entire body. It was like a forest fire: unstoppable and indiscriminate of its victims. The beast roared with anger so strong, physically shaking the frail figure it reared from. Throwing precaution to the wind he stormed across his living room to the small box filled with his magical items. His fingers groped for the familiar holly and white-knuckled it once they had found it. Each step was a heavy stone slamming against an anvil's steel.

The door swung open with such force Draco was nearly swept off his feet. Harry let out a deep growl and pushed the tip of his wand into Draco's clothed chest. Promptly, he edged both of his calloused hands above his shoulders and allowed himself to be at the mercy of the suddenly wrathful raven haired boy. He had been pinned unceremoniously against the wall adjacent to the door. His left leg cramped.

"Give me one bleeding reason not to hex your sorry ass right now!" Harry bellowed. The fair-haired boy gaped as that missing passion and livelihood suddenly erupted within his forest eyes. The severity in his stare rolled over Draco like a crash of thunder. It took all his self-restraint not to shiver at the gesture.

Draco sputtered out, "I don't have my wand, and I'm not he-". Draco inwardly gaped at his foolish tongue for creating words with such little eloquence. The forest burning in Potter's eyes refused to free him from its rage.

"LIES!" Harry roared in complete disbelief and untrusting. The holly was now pressing so hard against Draco's flesh that he was sure it would bruise. Draco swallowed the saliva in his mouth and grimaced as it slid past his sand-paper throat. He had to handle this carefully. Draco began to calculate his every word, motion, and gesture extremely carefully. One wrong move and he could be dead at the hands of a walking manifestation of an inferno.

"Potter," he began slowly, "I'm going to up-turn my robe pockets." Draco carefully lowered his hands to his sides, making sure he never once broke eye contact with Harry. That would mean almost certain death - that much he was confident in. His grey eyes held the forest fire with unwavering concentration. As his suddenly calm hands delved into his robe pockets, he saw Harry's upper lip curl into a look similar to sensing a foul scent. He bit his lower lip and turned the pockets out to reveal their complete emptiness.

Harry's expression did not soften. "Where is it?" he spat.

"I haven't held a wand in nearly six years, Harry Potter." Draco's tone was much calmer than his beating heart would tend to argue.

Harry suddenly remembered that the Malfoy family had been put on magical probation. Even after his testimony in their favor shortly after The Second Wizarding War, the Wizengamot had ruled the Malfoy family untrustworthy of magical use for a minimum of ten years. If his memory served him correctly, all three Malfoys were also to be on house arrest for a period no less than two years. He was now wishing it had been much more than that.

The venomous thought of recalling his testimony even entered his mind; but not even he had sunk that low to execute it. He could not simply ignore the fact that it was indeed Draco's wand which rebounded the spell that ultimately killed The Dark Lord, as painful as those recollections were. He could never forgive the Malfoy family for many crimes and abuses they had committed, but, even now in his sordid state, would not see them sent to a place like Azkaban.

Well, Lucius Malfoy could do with a few months in there, perhaps.

Draco was pleased to feel the holly slowly lose tension and slightly pull away from his now sore chest. It did not, however, drop. The wand remained pointed at him. He felt that he should wait for his interrogator to fire another question. Attempting to speak would be most unwise in his current predicament.

A gap of silence and uncomfortable glaring commenced. Draco was becoming sensationally uneasy in his own skin and wondered if it was possible to simply turn into a pool of robes and skin and evaporate. Harry's gaze never once left Malfoy. Somewhere along his meandering thoughts, he gathered another question.

"Explain yourself. What are you doing here?"

Ah. Now they had come to the question Draco had hoped would never come. Some ludicrous part of him thought that perhaps Harry would read his mind and just gladly swing open his door, and they would have a nice cup of tea. In another time that could have been so.

He was reminded a train ride so many years ago where Potter had refused his invitation of friendship. Would things be different now? How would life have been different for Draco Malfoy if The Boy Who Lived had been his friend? He recalled the golden trio: the Granger brat, Potter, and his lolly-gagging ginger friend. Could the fate he had suffered been avoided if he had pushed aside his pride and befriended the eventual freedom-fighters?

It was a curious, and ultimately pointless, concept to mull over. Bursting from two voids on intermingling thought processes, Draco began improvising. This particular acting he had become fairly acquainted with as the years rolled on.

"I'm on the run" he claimed. This was, if not examined too hard, the truth. Four years ago he had fled Malfoy Manor as soon as he could. That is to say as soon as the two-year house arrest had been lifted and the over-seeing Aurors vacated the no-longer Unplottable manor, Draco executed the plan he had so long formulated in his mind. He took nothing but his wand and small pouch of galleons. He had got word shortly after that Lucius was looking fervently for his heir. At the time, he had been in the confines of a decrepit pub centered in the magical cloister of Skargreave. Worn down and low on galleons, he had overheard two elderly witches, obviously pure bloods, talking about how 'worried' The Malfoys must be for their only - and therefore favorite - son. He tried not to laugh at the very concept of his father feeling an emotion that would associate with sympathy over his son.

It was true, he supposed, that Lucius was indeed worried. And he had no doubts in his mind that he was searching for Draco. He figured that his earnest search for his only son probably played in the patriarch's political and economical favor. Malfoys were never a family to turn away from opportunity when it came to them. It was this intuition, undoubtedly, which saved them from a fate involving Azkaban. However, Draco was not so delusional to believe that his dear father's worries were based in the well-being of his son.

Narcissa had been unable to produce another male for Lucius, one of his greatest disappointments in his wife. It had then fallen on Draco to produce offspring which could then carry on the Malfoy name. This burden is what made Draco so valuable to his father, and what made him valuable still.

Up until one year after The Second Wizarding War, Draco had accepted this strict expectation and grudgingly allowed his father to suit him out to arbitrary women from other pureblood and wealthy families. It had become difficult for his father, Draco noted, because of the smirch upon their name, for him to find wiling and worthy women to marry Draco off to.

Draco was pulled from these searing memories as Harry began, once again, to speak. He was keen to notice the wand had once again been pushed against his throbbing chest. When did his heart beat become so labored?

"And? That involves me how, exactly?" Harry demanded. His words were awfully bitter, and Draco wondered if he had possibly been gargling acid in his free time.

This question was the climax, wasn't it? It was the 'Do or Die' moment in this small play consisting of two very confused protagonists. What was the right answer to this little quiz? Is there a right or wrong? Maybe this was a short-answer question - opinion based, perhaps.

"I …need a place to stay."

As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how ridiculous they sounded. In no form of reality was this either a reasonable request or warranted an affirmative response. He felt like smashing his throbbing head through a wall. He tried not to look at Harry because his expression just furthered his embarrassment.

Harry's mouth lay lax, a gap between his lips quite present. His eyebrows were high on his forehead and his green eyes refused movement. Suddenly he let out a high-pitched, mirthless laugh. But it wasn't any type of laugh like Draco had ever heard. It was more of a cackle which made it all that more gut-wrenchingly terrifying.

"Oh, that's just fucking _rich_ , Malfoy. Let me just set out an extra fucking plate for you, your highness!" Harry shrieked, malice dripping from each syllable. A terrifying smile was plotted on Harry's face that made Draco wince. His eyes vibrated in their sockets and Malfoy felt his knees go weak. Apparently some realization graced Harry's mind as his expression soured.

"Holy shit, you're serious." Harry whispered.

Though it felt absolutely ridiculous, Draco offered a small nod in Harry's direction. The wand once again began to punish his chest with a painful jab to his sternum.

"Where…Where do you get off asking _me_ for favors, Malfoy? If it wasn't for me you'd be worse than dead right now! My sympathies do not extend to allowing you to invade my personal life!" Harry bellowed. He was physically shaking from head to toe now.

Before Draco could get a word in edge-wise, Harry shouted "If you know what's good for you, you will turn around and walk away. Find some other unlucky sod to bother with your unsightly presence."

Draco stepped back in complete shock. The raven's words were like lashes to bare skin. even in their youth, never had Potter's words been filled with such rampant disgust. It was nearly impossible for him to stay the venomous retorts he dearly wished he could use to lash back.

He swallowed carefully and shot a recrimination of sorts back at Harry: "Sadly, Potter, I do know what's good for me. And that's a safe-house. I can't keep running."

"Running from what?" Harry shot. His brow was furrowed indignantly.

That's an uncomfortable question. His first thought said it all: ' _So many things.'_ But that was the _wrong_ answer to this test. But, then again, this question didn't seem to have a right answer. So instead he opted for a silence, refusing to answer the question.

Harry's brow furrowed once again, his eye's narrowing accordingly. "Answer me!" He demanded.

Unable to hold his now rebellious tongue, Draco groped for words to lash back with.

"Where is she? The Weasley brat, that is. Gi-" Draco countered.

Harry suddenly became ferocious. The burning forest became uncontrollable; charcoal and brimstone replaced it. Dust Dust Dust Dust.

Harry cut off Draco's speech with a strong jab to his chest. A growl was held behind the lion's bared teeth.

Harry screamed, "FINISH THAT DAMN SENTENCE, MALFOY! I FUCKING DARE YOU!"

 _'Bare your teeth'_

"Ginevra, wasn't it?" Draco offered.

It happened rather quickly. Many things did.

Harry's green eyes became extremely wild, verging on manic. The wand he held flicked backwards towards Harry's shaking side. Draco noticed a green light flash in the room behind Harry as someone he could not see flooed into the flat through a very sleek looking fireplace. Draco was struck by a large sum of magical energy which washed over him like a wall of heat that threatened to burn his skin and torch his organs. The force shook him to his very core and left him completely immobile. He was pushed to the wall opposite the door as two different voices called out two very different things.

"HARRY!"

" _Sectumsempra!"_


	3. Bad Blood

Chapter Three - _Bad Blood_

Even as the pain seared over Draco's right shoulder, he couldn't find his voice to create an audible scream. The spell's wound was now running with a river of Draco's blood through and over his tattered clothing. His left hand shot up instinctively to attempt the the blood from flowing, but it became quite obvious that the wound had been cut too deep for simple treatment. He stared at the gaping incision until the pain and physical shock hit him like a brick wall.

Draco's jaw quivered as he slid slowly down the hallway wall via the small of his back. A trail of red followed his path down to the carpet.

 _'You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?'_

As his vision started to blur and Harry's frozen stance above him began to waver, Draco's mind attempted to recall the spell's origin, because even in his state of near-unconsciousness the spell was quite literally painfully familiar. His hearing might as well have not existed. What sounded like mumbling to him was coming out as shouts in reality just a few feet ahead of him.

"Merlin's beard!"

Still teeming with a fitful rage, Harry shook himself of his astonishment. A tall brunette woman with bushy hair came barreling past him from the room to his rear. Her strong-gripped hand forced Harry away from the doorway. He heard his wand fall to the ground and watched in horror as it rolled quietly to a slowly widening puddle of blood on the carpet. One of his hands shot out to the adjacent wall in ordeer to keep his balance. In a complete state of muteness, he watched as the bushy haired woman flicked a vine wood wand from a small latch on her thigh. At once she began to wave the wand masterfully over the wound on the blond boy's shoulder.

 _"Vulnera Sanentur..."_

The flow of blood began to ease from the wound instantaneously. The delicate fingers of the bushy-haired woman glided over the clothing around the cut. In a show of her masterfully concealed strength, the woman tore the cloth around the wound with little effort or physical strain. Red-stained and pale flesh was revealed from the opening. Harry saw the blonde figure slouch suddenly and begin shaking at random intervals. His body was clearly acting out of reflex now, no longer under volition of the mind which commanded it. The spasms slowed with the second incantation.

 _"Vulnera Sanentur..."_

The words leaving her mouth sounded poetic now; they were like putting lyrics to a calming sunset. Harry watched, awe-struck, as he witnessed the spell being applied for the second time to the man in front of him. On the tall woman's command, the wound repaired itself readily. Draco's head lolled to the left shoulder and lay there motionless not including the ceremonious spasm from the lacerated arm. The incantation left the woman's mouth for one last time.

 _"Vulnera Sanentur..."_

The third articulation of the spell caused most of the injury to disappear. Harry cringed, noticing that a rather large scar still lay plastered against the pale skin. With this came the sudden revelation of Draco's state. He had noted it before, but Harry was just now beginning to truly process with just how much severity Malfoy's appearance had descended since their last encounter at the trial. How frail and incurable the blonde appeared, far-gone from the likes of polite company. A strange feeling of guilt and pity enveloped him as he stared at the creature in front of him. Dreadful silence plagued the hallway.

"I took a huge risk healing him out here. I couldn't chance moving him, though. Quick, I'll clean him up inside. Carry him." the woman asserted towards Harry's direction.

"But, 'Mione-"

Hermione cut him off swiftly before he could continue fathoming excuses. "I do NOT want to hear your back talk, Harry Potter! You _will_ carry him inside this instant." she hissed. Not one ready to face the rage of a clearly wrathful Hermione, the raven-haired boy stumbled over to the unconscious Malfoy. With surprisingly great earnest, Harry tucked his right arm under both knees and his left hand slid past the base of Draco's neck. Minimal effort was required to lift him, and Harry was not surprised to find just how light Malfoy had become. Harry felt a small trickle of blood slide down his arm as he lifted the blonde along with him while he stood. Hermione was swiftly at the pool of blood and the blood trail on the wall as soon as Draco had vacated the spot.

 _"_ Tergeo _."_ she whispered under her breath, handling the words as if they were her own flesh and blood.

Harry was sure to keep his eyes focused on anything but the body he held. A strange mixture of disgust (with whom he wasn't sure), fear, and pity washed over his emotional landscape. He irritatingly noted to himself that this was the most complex his emotional range had been in nearly two years.

 _Scary._

Quickly feeling light headed as a result of carrying the Malfoy (or what was left of a Malfoy, anyway), Harry bee lined to the sofa and placed the wincing, but still conscious, boy in a laying position. He quickly slid his hands from his flesh. He was shocked to realize how cold his fingers felt. As Hermione closed the door on the apartment, the raven crossed his arms in order to return some heat to his upper extremities.

As Hermione turned around, Harry instantly wished he could be anywhere else in the world besides in her wake. As he rubbed his hands together, blood smeared across his palms.

"Harry. James. Potter."

She stomped over to his direction and took a vice-grip on the collar of his sweater. He frantically searched for any kind of escape path but found none. She pulled him close to her face, and Harry was terrified to see the seething glare in her eyes. Dams burst. Civilians cried out in a panic. The whole damn city shook violently in her wake.

"What in the name of all that is holy did you think you were doing?" she scowled; her voice was like vinegar. With a brutish throw, she forced him onto the opposing arm chair. He attempted to compose himself before answering, his dignity completely forgotten.

"But...but 'Mione you didn't hear what he said-"

"I DON'T GIVE TWO KNUTS WHAT HE _SAID,_ HARRY! THAT WAS A DARK SPELL YOU USED! IN A MUGGLE BUILDING OF ALL PLACES! IF YOU WERE ANYONE ELSE YOU WOULD BE IN AZKABAN ALREADY." Hermione was furious. Her eyes suddenly became two piercing daggers capable of murder. Harry had seen her like this only on a few occasions. Of course he had seen her angry, but this exceeded normal "Hermione Ranting" tenfold. The fire which Hermione could muster was nothing to be trifled with; it was incomparable in its destructive capabilities, and awesome in its magnitude. She was stomping back and forth across his living room, her hands flailing in different directions. Her words were drowned out by the ringing in Harry's ears and the pounding thoughts against his throbbing temples. The blood on his palms refused to dry, fueled by the sweating on his palms.

"-hadn't showed up what would have happened, Harry? You are complete rubbish at healing spells! HE COULD HAVE DIED. DIED, HARRY."

Harry could tell he had no defense. The moment he had cast _Sectumsempra_ he had regretted it. The spell, which he had learned from Snape's potion's book in his sixth year, was Dark Magic he had only cast once before against the very same boy who lay across from him on the sofa. At the cost of furthering his shame, he began grasping at straws to validate his actions.

"But, Hermione, it's Malfoy!" he sputtered.

"Oh! So CLEARLY that means you can _cut him open_! Bloody hell, Harry. Does he even have a _wand?_ " Hermione snapped. She sounded offended and completely flabbergasted. She was staring at Harry with such a fierce look that it was impossible to lie to her without bursting into tears. He knew the answer right away, because it was a question he had demanded from the other boy. He now almost wished that Draco had had a wand on him.

"N-no."

"NO. NO WAND! HE COULDN'T EVEN DEFEND HIMSELF, HARRY." Hermione lashed bitterly. Outside, he swore he could hear children begin crying.

Her face suddenly fell. Harry grimaced. He knew that look. No amount of time or hardships could prepare him for what he knew she was about to say.

"I'm so disappointed in you Harry..." she whispered barely audibly. She brought her eyes back to his. "The Harry I knew would never strike a defenseless man."

The raven could feel his heart stop. It sunk deep in his chest and a lump formed in his throat. Almost nothing could be worse than hearing Hermione utter those words. Each syllable a stab to his wounded heart, Harry felt completely defeated. A tidal wave of embarrassment and shame washed over him. He had no ammunition by which to combat Hermione's words; he knew that they were true. As if suddenly cognizant of his bodily form, Harry watched as some of the blood pooling in his hands dripped soundlessly onto the fringed carpet in front of him.

He could not bring himself to look at either of the two creatures in his home. The tension caused a palpable feeling of dread to overcome the two conscious individuals in the room. They both knew that where they stood, at this moment, was the beginning of something they were neither prepared for nor were capable of stopping. Inevitability creeped upon Hermione and Harry's shoulders - resting just out of sight, but never out of mind. Draco groaned from the couch.

Hermione's eyes snapped to his direction. "What is he doing here?" she asked quietly to no one in particular.

Harry picked up the burden of answering Hermione's inquiry. "He said he was running." the raven responded.

"From?"

"We didn't get that far."

The brunette shook her head and headed towards the kitchen alone. As soon as she was out of Harry's view she allowed her posture to slouch and closed her eyes tightly. Visions of a younger and bubbly Harry running through an open field within Hogwarts grounds framed her nostalgic thoughts. The field was empty besides the two souls and the only sound was the call of birds and their conjoined laughter which echoed off the nearby mountains. A few first years stared at them from a nearby path in bemusement. Harry turned to Hermione and let out a careless laugh filled with life. His face was so much younger and held that childish innocence she had so nearly forgotten was possible for the dark-haired boy. Suddenly they collapsed heavily onto the emerald field, both children laughing themselves breathless about something Snape might have said, or perhaps they were running from Filch. It didn't really matter at the time; it hardly mattered now. Ron came barreling out from behind a tree flailing his arms and calling their names. They continued to laugh as he stomped around them in a rage. She wasted no time in pulling him down to lie with them in the vegetation. He had become quite satiated after that.

The visions stretched and turned. She was now standing in a well lit hallway. The walls seemed rather close together and made the apartment complex seem extremely less homely.

Harry was in a newly bought flat. Two of his hands wrapped lovingly around a red haired woman. She and Ron smiled affectionately in their direction. Ron was slightly apprehensive; Hermione saw this quite easily. They both wished the best for Harry since the war. He of all people needed some quiet now more than ever. Hermione noticed - but tried not to think about - that the red head wasn't pulling tightly to Harry as he was to her. She thought they made the rather queer couple, but Harry was completely enamored with her. And Hermione wasn't about to question her childhood friend during his first period of freedom and peace in ages.

Later she would regret never saying anything.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione let a small gasp escape her mouth as her heavy and sordid reminiscing was swept away from her. Pivoting on her small feet, the brunette woman faced the voice. A more-pale-than-usual Draco Malfoy sat visibly uncomfortable upon the couch he had been laid down on a few moments earlier. Harry, sitting on his hands, was glancing in every direction nervously. No single surface seemed to entertain his eyes for long enough.

"Yes?" she squeaked. It was quite strange, really. She held no grudge towards the Malfoy family. She never thought she would come to like them, and that had never transpired. Simply their involvement in the war and bad blood down the years of the family's existence was a clear signal that she and the Malfoys would never be on agreeable terms. But Harry's testimony at the end of the war had truly touched the girl's heart. She had grown a new-found admiration for Narcissa Malfoy, who had practically saved Harry from The Dark Lord in his time of dire need. The entire court room had been moved by the kindness in the face of evil by the matriarch of the Malfoy family. Hermione was convinced that if not for Narcissa's bravery, Draco and Lucius would be celebrating their birthdays in Azkaban. The Malfoys - and the Wizarding World - owed a great deal to the maternal instincts and earnest bravery of Narcissa.

All that aside, years of bitterness between her and Draco were not about to disappear in a moment's notice. They were mortal enemies in school and she was always afraid of Draco beating her out for top student, which would have been completely and entirely unacceptable. The name-calling, tricks, and all-around snobbery from their Hogwarts years were not easily forgotten either. She did feel an immense amount of pity for the boy, however, insinuating that the media's depictions of the "Runaway Malfoy" contained even an ounce of truth. She would certainly agree that his current condition warranted some semblance of generosity and support from anyone - even sworn enemies. Old grudges had lied still for too long to reawaken them without warrant.

She thought idly to herself that if the warrant came, hell fire would rain. As the case would be - for the time being anyway - it appeared as if this would not be necessary.

"I offer my thanks. I presume it was your talents that saved me from- " he paused. "Unfortunate endings in that hallway." Draco's voice was a pained whisper.

Hermione's eyes expanded. She had not expected any type of thanks for her deeds, especially from Draco. Her actions were common decency for someone with her training in the situation she was plunged into. She later mulled over the idea that he probably hadn't seen much of human decency in the past six years. She noted how scratchy and muffled his voice was. It was almost as if it hadn't been used in ages. She had the strange urge to laugh as she envisioned dust puffing out from his throat.

 _Old habits die hard._

She was about to respond when she froze. Draco's final words ringing in her mind _'...in that hallway'._ In her haste in healing Draco she had hardly realized the setting of their unsettling predicament.

She almost didn't notice Harry's clearly uneasy and shocked look as she swarmed Draco, pulling him off of the couch and practically dragging him to Harry's bedroom. All the while, Draco shrieked in pain from the sudden forced motion, a burning static encompassing his whole shoulder. She slammed the door behind her and latched the door shut with one of the many locking mechanisms Harry had installed on the pitiful looking door frame. She motioned for him to sit down on the bed, and he did so readily. He cringed as he sat, one arm clasped over his lacerated shoulder.

For a brief moment, Draco came to terms with the notion that he was going to die in Harry Potter's bedroom by the hands of a very capable witch. In all honesty, there were much worse ways to kick the bucket. He white-knuckled the edge of the bed and prepared for what he could only imagine would either be writhing pain or his quick and speedy death.

Hermione was keen enough to notice a distinct look of fear plastered on his hollow face. She wasted no time, however, in order to reassure him.

"How did you do it?" Hermione demanded. Okay, maybe not the most reassuring thing she could have said.

Whatever Draco had expected, that had certainly _not_ been it. His knuckles relaxed at the edge of his sitting place, and he silently reprimanded himself. Did he really rationalize a situation in which Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes would kill him in cold blood upon Harry Potter's bed? Once again, he suppressed a truly inappropriate laugh from surfacing from within his gut. That exertion costed him a jolt of pain to run down his shoulder. White knuckles returned to their position on the bed.

Hermione could feel it now; her brain was in over-drive mode. The metaphorical cogs turned faster than they had in ages as it worked to figure out the problem placed before her. Normally the problems were words, Auror cases, or even binding situations like those back in her years at Hogwarts. This particularly problem looked like Draco Malfoy. She suspected, however, that the answer to this problem solved more that one puzzle.

Her feet became slightly jittery and her whole body started responding to energy which inundated all of vasculature systems. It was exciting and made her feel more youthful than she actually was. It was like diving and running at the same time. It was like _magic._

Draco raised a solitary eyebrow at her.

"How did you do it? When I found you, Harry was _in_ the hallway! How in the name of merlin did you pull something like that off? And on your first time seeing him in six years!" she fired as she paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

This inquiry only seemed to further Draco's confusion. He stammered a few "wha-"'s and some "uh-"'s before falling silent. Hermione didn't even seem to be paying attention to him. If he didn't no better, he would think Hermione was really just having this conversation by herself. He was just there for show.

That might have very well bee the case.

An odd sensation that felt something like fear but not as menacing gripped him viscerally. He waited expectedly for the demon to release its hold on him, but its fingers just clenched tighter to his chest. It lay there in wait.

After what felt like years of silent pacing Hermione turned to him once again. She seemed ready to lecture him. He was certain he would receive nothing less. Hermione's intellect was something he was no stranger to. Years of envy in school aren't easily forgotten. The only subject he ever felt competent in was potions, simply because he could keep up with the child prodigy. Everything else he had been made to feel only ineptitude, constantly out-smarted and out-witted by the mudblood who shared the school with him. Constantly living in someone's shadow you don't respect can be hard on a child.

"Malfoy, Harry has not left these apartment walls in a little under two years." She began.

Draco just stared at her. Certainly that was just a joke, an exaggeration perhaps. But he detected not an ounce of deception in her voice and face. In fact, her visage was stern and held the stringent glare of a woman much more advanced in age than her bodily form implied. It was both intimidating and frightening. He didn't say a word and allowed her to continue her speech.

"Harry had a poor finish to his marriage - and ultimately relationship - with Ginny. As a result of that blow, he holed himself up in this filthy flat. At first we thought it was just a lapse, something we expected. But it didn't get better. As the months went on it got... progressively worse. We hardly saw him unless we showed up here. The only places he goes now is either Ron's mum's or our home in Scotland." she motioned towards the fireplace on the other side of the wall. "And even when he's at those places he refuses to leave the building."

"He hadn't left these walls in ages. No one could pull him out of this funk either. Not even Ron! Not a chance in hell he would he consider go seeing a specialist" She was racing through her words now. Draco was in complete and utter shock. He was slowly starting to realize why he was pulled into a separate room. And he didn't like it.

"And then you show up! How long were you talking with him?" She suddenly demanded of him, stopping in her back-and-forth pacing. Two puzzle pieces clicked together in his head and Draco suddenly saw the image this jigsaaw of a conversation was leading towards. His body started to shake slightly. What happens when you finish the puzzle and you don't like the picture?

"Malfoy!"

Jumping from shock he answered her like a trained dog: "No more than ten minutes, I'd say." He grimaced to himself. His tone was too comfortable. Something about being barked around by Hermione struck a primal chord within him. He thought about how a younger version of him would be thoroughly disappointed and disapprove of his behavior. Allowing a mud-blood to fire orders at him? Despicable.

At Draco's words, her face exploded with numerous emotions. Both of her arms flailed into the air and she began pacing again.

"Absolutely _ludicrous!_ Only _ten minutes!_ " Hermione mused. Her mind was now in over-drive. She tried to stop and give each of the scenarios running through her head the time of day to be thoroughly mulled over, but she found that it was impossible to slow down her emphatic mind. It willed itself forward, pushing through consolidation, retrieval, and forward propigation of the neurons firing in her pre-frontal cortex (associated heavily with reason and empathy, two skills this exercise needed in heavy supply). The brain uses 25% of the body's energy in a day. _'I hope that's going to be enough._ ' She giggled to herself.

The claw gripping around Draco's chest relaxed and then clenched tighter than before. He winced as pain erupted from his shoulder and the organs which lay uneasy inside his body. She kept shooting furtive glances in his direction as she stroked her hair and walked past him and back again. He shifted left and right in his seat of the bed. The whole time his knuckles never left the edge

"What did you say to him?" she asked, her voice lower than it had been a few seconds earlier.

Draco wracked his mind for a reasonable answer. His conversation with Harry wasn't coming through very clearly. "We... I asked him for a place to stay?" he responded. If it hadn't sounded pathetic before, it sure as hell sounded so now. If it wouldn't have furthered his shame, he would have dropped his hands in his hands right then and there.

"Well...As unorthodox as a request like that is, I still don't see how that relates to his extreme change in demeanor. I could hardly pull _any_ emotion out of him. And then, all of a sudden, he's casting spells all over the place!" she said to no one in particular.

Draco turned a deep shade of red. Hermione suppressed a giggle

 _Scary._

Inspiration struck her while she was staring at Draco's small frame

"You might just find yourself a place to stay after all, Mr. Malfoy."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** _This story will be coming in installments of three. You can imagine each section as being three chapters long. Right now, I have 5 sections planned of which these past 3 chapters collectively comprise the first. Hopefully you've enjoyed the story so far. I would love your feedback and any critiques you might have! I am involved with this mainly to increase my own writing confidence, so some workshopping would be appreciated. Favorite, Follow, and Review! Cheers._


	4. A Gamble

Chapter 4 - A Gamble

So it is when we retreat in anger:  
we think we burn alone  
and there is no balm.  
Then water enters, though it makes  
no sound.  
~ Jane Kenyon

Harry sat in chair trying to wake himself up from a nightmare. That was the only logical explanation for the events unfolding in front of him, seeing as the alternative was to conclude that the rest of the world had simply gone stark raving mad in a matter of hours. It seemed rather unlikely that everyone else were to go bonkers before he himself succumbed to sweet, sweet insanity.

"He'll sleep on the couch until we can find a better option. You can give him the grocery lists and he'll pick up any necessities you may need from the stores and otherwise. Don't look at me like that, Harry; Of course I know you were paying that poor muggle boy to pick up your groceries. After I pick Rosie up from her grandmother's later today, I'll go right away to pick up toiletries and the like…."

Harry couldn't even muster the energy to pretend he was listening to Hermione. A faint humming noise was pulsing against his head and his heart rate had slowed to something less than human. All animals have roughly the same amount of heartbeats during their lifetime, but animals that live longer seem to have much longer rhythmic periods in between their heartbeats. ' _At this rate, I'll live forever.'_

He wasn't even listening when he interrupted her. "Hermione, I'm going to put this in the nicest way I know how: absolutely fucking not. There is not a chance in hell Malfoy is staying in the flat longer than it takes for him to get to his feet and _sprint_ out the front door." Harry's tenacity was admirable, but Hermione's was biblical.

"This is actually _not_ a discussion, Harry." She snapped viciously at him. Harry knew that the voice she had used was the exact one she drew from her motherly tool belt to ensure Rosie and Hugo followed her command under fear of mutilation, death, or something worse. Harry, however, was not a child. He was not going to be talked down to as if he were one, even by Hermione. This was _his_ flat, god dammit.

He began shouting and rising to his feet. "If you're so fucking in love with the prat, why don't you just take him to your house; I'm sure he'll fit in just great at the dinner table in between Hugo and Rosie. One big happy fucking family!" His voice clapped with finality as the last syllable left his mouth. He expected some type of withdraw from Hermione, but his temper was matched and rebuked with a vengeance.

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me, Harry James Potter. Malfoy will stay here. He deserves a place to stay, but this isn't just about him. It's about you, too. He has to stay here."

"Are you implying that—." Harry couldn't finish that statement. Silence once again settled in between the two friends. Hermione wrinkled here eyes and pursed her lips.

"Malfoy will not stay with us; he will stay with you. He will have access to the floo, so he can reach me if need be. I will be setting him up with a checking account so that he can purchase anything he may need from the muggle stores. It'll come from my paycheck, so you won't have to worry about any expenses he will produce for his well being. I'll be back in a few days to explain to him how to use it," Hermione paused. She seems to recollect something internally before continuing. "I expect that no more gashes into his body will be made when I come back. Remember, I'll be back briefly tonight to drop off some necessities he may need. I won't be able to stay long, because a disgusting amount of paperwork needs to be off my desk by the end of the night." Hermione made sure her words were punctuated and clear. She wanted to ensure that Harry understood she was deathly certain about the decision she had formulated not fifteen minutes ago in Harry's bedroom. Creaking on the floor finally made her tear her gaze from Harry and stare at the pale figure assembling himself at the entryway to the living room. If Hermione was at all perturbed by man's entrance, she did not show it.

"Malfoy," she began hastily, "I've let Harry know the plan for now. If anything changes, I will let you or Harry know as quickly as I can. I'll be back this evening with what you'll need to get you by for the next few weeks." Hermione looked from Draco to Harry. Draco looked completely bewildered, but he refused to let his eyes leave Hermione's gaze. Harry was radiating a fevered heat that threatened to melt the very foundation his flat stood upon. He was staring daggers into Draco's throat. Hermione's resolve faltered for a moment.

' _I was never much of a gambler….'_

She took a few steps towards Harry so that she was practically pressing up against his side. "Harry," she whispered softly, "I'm asking you to trust me. I haven't been the best friend to you the past few years. I failed over and over again — both me and Ron have." She paused involuntarily. Harry recognized her throat catching and knew without looking at her in the eyes that tears were welling up there. "But I need you to trust me, if only one more time. I know it seems crazy. Bloody hell, maybe it is… I'm tired of just waiting for you to come back to us, Harry."

Hermione's last sentence was barely audible. The tears in her eyes had managed to find their way to her jaw. His hand was clutched tightly in hers. Harry couldn't fathom how to respond. Hermione's authenticity and compassion was not something he was prepared to combat, nor did he ever think he would be able to. He was so thoroughly confused, and so thoroughly fucked. He couldn't begin to understand how any of this nonsense of letting Malfoy invade his privacy would remotely come to help him in the long run. He couldn't even be sure what having Malfoy around would mean for the future. Was he here for a few days? Weeks? He hardly knew anything of the plan he was currently being coerced into agreeing to. He doubted that even Hermione knew what direction this was headed. Nonetheless, Hermione's words were too genuine to discredit in that moment. Her ammunition was a flag of peace, and Harry had only come prepared with missiles.

He had a thousand questions, each with their own personalized brand of venom to take-down this monstrosity of a request that Hermione had fathomed. But they seemed useless in the wake of his friend's overwhelming sincerity. And just like that, he was trapped like a rabbit in a cage.

He wanted to escape. He wanted to run very far away.

He knew he wouldn't make it five steps out the door.

His breath caught in his chest, he lowered his head, and closed his eyes. To Hermione, this sufficed as a response. She managed a tight but cautious smile and leaned her forehead against the side of Harry's face. There lied in itself an agreement. Although temporarily, Harry had silently agreed to Hermione's terms. She knew he was reluctant, but it was the first step towards something new.

She hoped that in this case new was synonymous with good.

Draco felt immediately out of place. The raw display of emotion which took place in front of him was all but unbearable to watch. He felt that he was somehow violating the privacy of the two friends as they traded gestures and words silently across the room from him. He at once was astounded by the sheer emotion conveyed by the simple gestures and afflicted by a deep-seated envy. He had never before felt the craving for human compassion as strongly as he did in that moment. His body shook silently as his face became an ever-so slightly deeper shade of red. In the bland living room standing awkwardly across from his two ex-rivals, Draco had never felt so alone.

Harry seemed to whisper something to Hermione after a long bout of silence. Her bushy hair raised up with the long intake of breath. She let out a deep sigh alongside a small nod of her head. She separated from Harry and bee-lined to Draco. He flinched back in surprise when she flung her arms around his shoulders. A small gasp left his lips as he willed his body to respond in some way, any way. The shaking had stopped, utter petrification taking its place. He felt Hermione's soft words against his ears.

"He doesn't know it, but he's counting on you."

And as soon as it had started, it was over. She shot him one last glance that he couldn't decipher before she was at the fireplace. In a flash of green the bushy haired woman was gone. All that remain in the room was the sound of chirping birds coming from outside the window, an empty bottle of whiskey on the ground, and two broken men dead-set on turning into dust.

—

Science nor linguistics have yet managed to create a word to represent the level of silence that overcame the room in Hermione's absence. The room threatened to echo any sound that was made, and yet Draco felt as if he was being shouted at by the void.

"Rule number one: don't ever go into my bedroom. Rule number two: after eleven o'clock, shut the hell up. Rule number three: don't you ever ask me about Ginny ever again. And," Harry stressed, "if I find out that you are trying to hurt me or any of the people I care about, I will have your head."

' _Not bad,'_ Draco thought, ' _decapitation is an easy way to go. How long does your brain stay alive after separation again?'_

 _"_ Anything else?" Draco's voice was a whisper, but the sardonic tone was undeniable. Harry's fury found new tinder.

"You could be a little bit more gracious, I think! Your filthy arse should be on the street right now. Instead you're standing there, fucking up the scent of my living room," Harry proclaimed.

Draco suddenly forgot the pain in his shoulder. Instead, a burning sensation grew in his stomach. Unintentionally, his body succumbed to a hostile posture: back straight, leaning slightly forward, eyes narrowed.

"Out on the street? At least I can actually go out on the street, Potter." Draco's words were dripping with venom, and Harry felt the sting. His shoulders slacked for a minute as the full realization of what his words meant washed over him like cold water. ' _Hermione told him.'_

Which was really moot point, he supposed, because eventually Malfoy would discover he couldn't bear to leave the walls which currently safeguarded him from the harshness and brutality of the outside world. Hell, take a look at Malfoy. That's what being out there does to you. Before Harry could respond, Draco unleashed words that he had apparently been keeping inside for quite some time.

"You're pathetic, Potter. You stand over here high and mighty; The Boy Who Lived? The Chosen One? Dear god, if this is what the man who saved "all witches and wizards" can come to, we're all certainly fucked from low expectations alone. I've spent the past two years getting by with nothing, and you have spent the past five with everything you could ever need and excess. But look where that's gotten you! Divorced, lonely, and self-loathing to the nth degree. I came here looking for some form of sanctuary from…..the life I'd been leading. I didn't know what I expected, Potter, but a lonesome wretch was certainly not fucking it. I thought I needed you to help me, but I'm starting to think you can't even help yourself. You don't think I noticed the empty alcohol getting cozy on the floor over there? Or the way you flinch at the sunlight? The world hasn't been kind to me, but at least I can turn and face it. All you can do is hide, get piss drunk, and hope your friends coming running to your rescue!" Draco was bellowing by the end of his speech. He couldn't help it. His words were a replacement for the lack of physical violence he wished he could exert on the man across from him; he wasn't about to let the fact that he was cut open a mere hour ago suddenly disappear in a moment. This was his retribution. This was vengeance. And it tasted like honey as it dripped out of his mouth.

"Get out."

Draco's engine was already accelerating too quickly for intervention, his momentum too great for compromise. Inertia's a tricky bitch.

"Just get rid of me, what a great fucking solution you've got there, Potter. The Granger girl is smart, but she doesn't have the guts to tell you like it fucking is. Have I said it enough times yet? You're pathetic. Kick me out all you want, but I still hold all the power here. I have the choice to walk out that fucking door. You don't. You're —."

At some point, Harry had gotten two inches from his face. Draco's words were cut short when Harry grabbed Draco by his hair and began dragging him to the door. ' _Hermione will just have to get over it,_ ' he thought.  
Draco, however, was not passively accepting being pulled in such in undignified manner. He swept a kick at the back of Harry's knee, causing him to buckle over and release his hold on Draco's hair. As lithely as he could manage, Draco made for the door and pried it open with one swift pull, the locks forgotten by Harry after the mess in the hallway. He turned towards the stairs at the far end of the hallway and raced to the freedom they promised.

Harry was blinded. His rage was clouding his ability to see clearly or focus. All he could target was Malfoy running away from him. He hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to do with him when he caught him, but images of French guillotines continually phased in and out of his thoughts. Before he knew what he was doing, his body was carrying him forward towards the sound of fleeing footsteps. He rounded a doorway, sprinted down a hallway, and entered the vestibule of the stairwell before the world around him suddenly collapsed.

His heart rate sky-rocketed; he fell to the ground as if gravity had decided to have its way with him. His field of vision began spinning one way and then the other. He heard his breath coming out as strangled wheezing, but he wasn't entirely convinced it was his own. He felt like his body was separating from his mind, which only further egged on his panic. He clutched around for any semblance of support or lifeline, but only found the cold brick wall of the stairwell vestibule. Or of Hades. Or of a dusty tomb. He wasn't entirely certain he could be sure where he was in space anymore. The spinning refused to stop and he felt an awful tightening sensation in his gut.

He wanted to be dead. He wanted this — and everything — to stop. The world was so big, and there was so much. So much that could hurt you — so much that wanted to hurt you. He wasn't Harry. He wasn't anything. He could feel the vomit rising in his throat and he let it go without truly making the decision to let it happen. He felt sweet unconsciousness coming just as a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders from behind and forced him up into a seated position. He had apparently been lying on the floor.

He was jarred back into his painful version of reality. Words were coming from above his shoulders, but he couldn't understand them. He felt tremendous shuddering rock his whole body. He felt like he had been nailed down to whatever surface gripped him with fearsome tenacity. After what he could only imagine was an eternity of silent but aching suffering, his body began to move miraculously as his vision finally faded and the void took him.

—

Draco struggled to find anything of substance in the kitchen. The cupboards were bare, the fridge was desolate, and the spices were next to none. Scraping together some eggs on the brink of expiration, cumin from the back of the cupboard behind a pack of empty instant potatoes, and some near-wilted spinach from the vegetable drawer he set out to make a meal that could at least be somewhat respected. He had made do with much worse.

He had trouble starting the stove — muggle contraptions were still beyond his comprehension, if he was being frank — but eventually got his ad hoc recipe simmering on the pan. It wasn't much, but a peace offering had to start with what he could get. A half hour later, Draco brought the meal over to the coffee table in the living room and placed both plates in which it had been separated upon the table. Draco leaned over and prodded the beast.

But when he awoke, he was anything but beastly. Harry's eyes opened slowly, revealing large green orbs with a a quiet sense of peace that he had not expected to find. Draco suddenly felt himself disarmed, disquieted, and eerily uncertain at the dark haired boy slowly awakening in front of him. For a moment, Harry was completely vulnerable, and — for just a small, unimportant moment — so was he.

"Granger came by while you were out. I told her that you fell asleep on the couch. I moved some of the stuff she gave me into the bathroom. You lost a meal to that hallway; try getting some of this down." Draco was forcing himself to remain as pleasant as he could manage; he imagined it all came out a little forced. It was true that the Granger girl had come by. Potter had been out for several hours after the fiasco in the hallway. After reaching the bottom of the stairwell, he had heard a most discomforting retching sound in the vestibule above him. Against possibly his better judgement, he went to go investigate exactly why Potter had not come racing down the stairs with mirth and disaster in his eyes. Arriving at the entryway to the stair well, he found Harry lying on the ground, breathing sporadically, and lying in his own vomit.

' _He doesn't know it yet, but he's counting on you._ '

Hermione's words had echoed in his mind as fight-or-flight responses sized each other up in his mind. He had stared down the lion, and realized it nothing but a lamb. What good would helping Potter bring him?

So it should have been easy to turn around and never look back. It should have been simple to never see the ridiculous mess of a man again in his entire life, and to leave him there writhing in his own filth. But Draco found he felt no satisfaction in leaving him in that stairwell, succumbing to a panic that was not his own, but a disease of his mind. This wasn't a defeat of Harry Potter, this was a betrayal by his body in a way so vile that the Slytherin could not even condone. His body's chemistry had turned against him and made him a shell of what he once was. But he saw that fire, he saw the passion of a once-great man hidden beneath the brimstone and flames of his anger. There was a lion waiting in chains, eager to liberate itself from the oppression of its own biology. Draco was moved to action, taking a leap of which he would not and could not return from. And so he pulled Harry from the ground and made him look at the world.

—

"It's not poison, you prat. You can eat it"

Harry stared at the blonde man incredulously. He had no idea how he had gotten to the couch in his living room. He felt ready to pass out even as he awoke from his blacked-out state. His first instinct was to throw a punch across the table, but his whole body ached instead.

"How did I —," Harry started.

"You had a panic attack in the hallway. I got you back to the apartment. Now eat something." Draco's voice was stern and calm. His shirt was still ripped in the place that Harry had cut him just the same morning, torn slightly by Hermione's hands to reveal much of his shoulder and chest. Harry took a deep breath, realizing rather quickly that he smelled atrocious. With that realization, came a similar one which notified him that his mouth tasted like the deepest darkest caverns of a dumpster. The food on the table suddenly looked a lot more appetizing. He sat up carefully.

To Draco's satisfaction, Harry picked up the plate and began eating the eggs silently. Draco asked lightly, "Good?"

Harry was bewildered by the change in demeanor in Malfoy. He couldn't understand why he was being so amiable, or why he was sitting across from him at all. Harry wasn't an idiot; he was able to piece together that Draco had seen him at his lowest out in that hallway and stayed. Here he was, a person he didn't even consider a friend, sitting across from him when Harry smelled like his own filth and looked like a few steps from death. He had promised Hermione that he would keep Malfoy around, but he was now feeling that this experience would prove to be tumultuous in ways he didn't expect. Very little had been what he expected today.

Draco was suddenly irritated. "If they're not good, no one's making you eat them, Potter. You can starve for all I very well care," snapped Draco.

Harry looked at him in the eyes and held his gaze. Draco was stuck in time, frozen by Harry's gaze, both by fear and something much more primal than his own terror.

"They're fine."

But they weren't just fine; they were great.


	5. Traitor

Chapter 5 - _Traitor_

"It's been weeks, Malfoy. Nothing has changed? Sleeping patterns? Hobbies maybe? What about his eating?"

Draco didn't slow the shopping cart he relentlessly pushed across the tile floor. Hermione's questions came as he passed by the isle containing the thousands of various breads in plastic wrapping. Everything from bagels and muffins to split-top loaves and baguettes could be found in the isles. The efficiency of muggle supermarkets were something Draco had come to admire in the past month that he had been hiding out in Potter's flat. Thousands of breads - quality often taking the backseat to quantity - could be found within arms distance. The entire grocery mart was stocked full of spices from around the world, vegetables preserved at exactly the right ripeness for consumption, and various boxed and wrapped-up sweets that he had never heard before. On the subject of the latter, he had discovered a particularly proclivity for the bagged chocolate covered almonds they kept at the isle cap right before the cereals and granola. He made a mental note to pick up another bag before he and Hermione left to the register.

"Nothing that I haven't told you already, Miss Granger."

"Oh, knock it off with that "Miss Granger" bullshit; It makes me sound like a school teacher."

Draco snickered to himself, hoping that Hermione did not see him as he did so. He eyed the honey wheat bread he had been looking for and grabbed two loaves from the shelf. The cart was starting to fill up, much to Draco's dismay. He was rotten at counting up the cost of the food he bought at the grocery store, because he mostly forgot to pay attention to the price tag or simply ignored it all together. From as far as he could tell, whatever funds Hermione was pumping into his account were enough to cover his spending habits at the grocery store. It usually went just like it did today: he would come to the store a walking distance away from the complex, fill up one of the carts with new foods to experiment with and the obvious necessities, maybe buy some new utensils to cook more properly in Harry's botched kitchen, and then swipe the preposterous plastic card Hermione had given him in a funny looking metal contraption. Whatever muggle nonsense caused the plastic card to allow him access to the large quantity of food he would always accumulate was both beyond him and not remotely interesting.

With no warning, his cart had stopped moving. He looked up to see Hermione holding onto the cart tightly. He frowned at her.

"I'm serious, Draco. You need to tell me if anything is changing — anything at all. Even the minor things are important. How he brushes his teeth, when he wakes up during the day. He's been stuck in a monotonous routine for literally years. Little changes are actually big changes for Harry."

Draco breathed out of his nose. His eyebrows furrowed before he cocked his head to the side. "Since when do you call me Draco?"

"Ever since you decided I'm a schoolteacher," Hermione deadpanned. That actually elicited a laugh from Draco. It surprised her; it was pleasant and almost warm. She let her grasp on the cart loosen and permitted him to continue forward throughout the market. She trailed just behind him.

"It may not seem like it, Miss Granger, but I'm actually rather invested in Potter getting better, myself. I'm not so naive as to think it's nearly to the same magnitude as you, but I think I have some stake in this little experiment of yours." Draco reached for the cutlets of turkey and chicken which cooled in the open fridge at his waist level. He glanced up at the bushy haired woman gathering herself next to him. Her look read surprise and intrigue.

"Is it honestly surprising?," Draco began, "I came looking for somewhere safe and I chose Potter's place. Do you think I would have done that had I not laid old demons to rest? Look, it's not like I _like_ the prat a whole lot — especially now I might add — but mental illness isn't something to mess around with. I've seen what it can do to people, and what Potter is suffering from isn't something I'd wish on Voldemort or my father. An affliction of the mind that tears you apart from the inside out? It's fiendish."

Hermione's eyes widened as Draco's speech spiraled forward. She didn't miss that he had put his father and the Dark Lord on the same level. It was an interesting insight into Draco's perceptions and life ever since running away, a subject he was vehemently silent about. Whenever his time as a runaway would ever be brought up by Hermione in her biweekly visits to Harry's flat, Draco would become rigid and immediately change topics or outright quiet her questions. It seemed that "laying demons to rest" spanned over much more than simply their Hogwarts years; Draco was trying to cut ties with everything that happened to him before he found himself at Harry Potter's doorstep.

At least, that's how things would appear. Hermione could not really ever be sure what Draco was thinking. Retribution, metamorphosis, or amnesia were all possible explanations, but Hermione couldn't honestly believe any of those explanations fully. He was impossible to read since their unorthodox reunion — an enigma embodied. It drove her insane with the burden of unknowing.

"That and I could stand to not have a flatmate who constantly smells like filth and alcohol," Draco continued. He looked over to Hermione who appeared to be deep in thought about either the kale he was putting into the basket or what Draco had just said.

They wandered some more after that in silence. Hermione couldn't think of anything else to say; Draco was convinced everything that needed to be said already had been.

"He's drinking as much as usual then?" Hermione's voice was confident, but her eyes were laced with a deep sadness. They reached the chocolate covered almonds. Draco grabbed two bags.

"Not after today he's not."

—

Lucius Malfoy opened the door to his study swiftly and elegantly. He stood in the door way staring down his guest with a raised chin and an unfeeling grin on his face. He bowed gently to the man sitting in his study.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Van Akker. My elves tell me you have news for me?"

The named Mr. Van Akker was a stout man with rosy cheeks and a surprising amount of jet black hair that curled down to his shoulders. His face was aged and sagged like that of a sixty-year-old man, but his hair didn't portray this age in the slightest. Not one grey hair could be found among his thick black locks, a result of the meticulous and harrowing job of plucking said monstrosities from his scalp each night after he wake and each night before he laid down to sleep. His posture was erect and his lips were pursed into a thin line which betrayed no emotion. He eyed Lucius for a few moments before responding.

"Your son is in muggle London."

Lucius's face contorted in disgust for a fraction of a second. He allowed his facial muscles to regain their poise and composure before continuing. "In muggle London, you say? That's quite a large area to cover, Mr. Van Akker. I'm sure you must know more than that, if your reputation precedes you correctly," Lucius drawled. Each word was calculated, chosen for efficiency, and polished before it left his mouth. Mr. Van Akker stood up from the chair he was seated in and walked towards Lucius. He came with inches of his face before he spoke again, his aged but still muscular figure pushing threatening against the unwavering Malfoy Patriarch's chest.

"He is in muggle London. And I will find him. I just thought you'd like to know that your wayward son has decided to become one of the talentless cretins roaming the streets of that awful city. Doesn't sound too great for the Malfoy name."

Van Akker took a step back from Lucius. The blonde man's eyes had gone stiff and rigid, a silent fury aching behind the whites of his eyes. Van Akker tilted his chin up and smiled at him. "I will say, however, that your boy has put up a serious fight. That little trick he pulled at Darrenthorn four months back by getting a witch to hex him with a foul odor curse? It threw my dogs off for weeks."

Van Akker turned on his heals to face the books on the opposite wall. "No matter though. It's nothing I can't handle," he said in a much louder voice, "He was foolish enough to make the trek to the city by foot. It was incredibly easy to track him after I found his trail. I'll have him by the end of the month."

"No, you won't. You will tell me exactly where he is, and I will handle the situation myself," Lucius sputtered out rather uncharacteristically. Something about Van Akker always put him on edge. The man was intimidating certainly, but his calm and control is what disquieted Lucius the most. He was supposed to be the cool and collected one, but apparently his frost was finding competition.

Van Akker was not perturbed by Lucius's outburst. "You know what I meant, Malfoy," he spat behind him, his back still facing Lucius.

"Your payment will arrive as soon as I know where my son is located. No sooner, no later"

Van Akker let out a mirthless chuckle. "My turn to say no. Your boy has given me a lot of trouble — a lot more trouble than the price you've pegged on him. One of my dogs is sick from that foul odor curse he was tracking. I want you to double the pay, and," he made sure to stare Malfoy down before continuing, "I want half of it now — up front. I won't search for a second until then. Shouldn't be a problem for you, correct Mr. Malfoy?"

Lucius had expected this. When began the business of hiring Van Akker, he knew exactly what he was getting into. He was a crook who sapped you dry of your money, but he sure knew how to get the job down. There was no bounty hunter around who was as good at what he did as Van Akker was. And, unfortunately, he was right. The extra price on his son's return was in fact easy for Malfoy to meet. Even after the war reparations, the Malfoy wealth had barely been damaged. Generations of wealth and prosperity don't disappear overnight.

Nonetheless, Lucius was proud and did not really feel the need or desire to negotiate with the creature across from him. He was filthy and wreaked of rancid butter and mold whenever he ventured into the Malfoy manor, a smell he apparently picked up from ransacking garbage cans to find his next target. In the wizard underground, he was a famous killer and heavily wanted by the Ministry, but he had eluded capture for over five years. He was a dangerous man, and Lucius did not like one second he had to spend in his company. Trying to talk to him reasonably would be like speaking to a brick wall with the hopes of some response.

 _'Curse that traitorous boy for getting me into this mess'_

Something about cursing Draco in his head gave him some confidence to stir against the wishes of the man standing across from him. He puffed out his chest and rearranged his cane in his hand.

"That was not the deal and you know it, Van Akker," Lucius said.

Van Akker laughed as he walked past Lucius and to the door. "And yet, Mr Malfoy," he said calmly, "I know you'll pay the price." The door closed without making so much as a squeak, leaving Malfoy standing seething quietly to himself, chin still raised just a bit too high.


	6. A Boat and a River

Chapter 6 - A Boat and a River

The shouting started before Draco could get the door fully open. Hermione - ever the loving and punctual parent - had abandoned Draco to pick up Rosie before he arrived at the flat, leaving only the bags full of groceries at Draco's dispense to protect himself from the fury pent up behind closed doors.

"You had better pray that every single one of those fucking bags contains a bottle of whiskey, you filthy piece of shit," roared Harry as he stood up from his spot at the kitchen table where he had presumably been awaiting Draco's return.

Draco simply put the groceries down on the kitchen counter, before turning to frown at Harry. "Now why would I buy more after just throwing every bottle I could find out the window? That would just be a waste of dear old Granger's hard earned money. Also 'filthy piece of shit'? I think you've been watching too many of those American action movies." He felt Harry's anger build as he turned away from him to begin removing groceries from their plastic bags. "There's no whiskey," Draco continued, "now go sit down before you hurt yourself grinding your teeth like a bitter old man."

Draco braced himself. He knew that his words were biting, and his actions were precarious (to understate their significance). Nonetheless, he had grown tired of the noxious and deplorable routine that his flat mate had established in the month since he had been recruited by Hermione to be Harry Potter's agent of change. These words were very much planned and intentional; some headway needed to be made in Harry's behavior, and Draco believed this was the way to go about it.

Okay. He _hoped_ this was the way to go about it.

_

He modeled his blunt approach off of his first night at Potter's flat when the black-haired boy got so physically, emotionally, and mentally upset that it drove Harry to a breaking point. They had shared a meal together that night that made this whole fucked up scenario almost felt normal. A strange moment in time, Draco ate with a silent but - dare he think - content Harry across from him. Of course this temporary peace only lasted as long as the food remained on the table.

From then on out it was silence, slamming doors, and visceral grunting noises brought about by Harry as he passed Draco during the morning walk from the bedroom to the couch. There he remained still in front of the television, smoking a cigarette when he believed Draco wasn't looking or drowning himself in alcohol when the mood struck him. To Draco, it was like living with a bear that had a particular proclivity for alcohol, a vice for nicotine, and access to a horrible muggle television shows.

It seemed as if Harry had gone about his normal routine, paying no mind to the ex-death eater that now roamed his halls with him. A recluse wandering aimlessly alongside a stationary runaway.

Life is chock full of fucked up ironies.

At first, this bizarre arrangement pleased Draco perfectly well. He would always wake up from the couch before Harry loafed out of the bedroom, giving him time to shower properly. He would then be able to start his day by making breakfast for one. Harry never seemed to show any interest in consuming food that early, allowing Draco complete freedom in the kitchen. He had always loved breakfast foods; they were exceptionally satisfying and gave him a sense of pride knowing that he could prepare them adequately on his own. He had never been very good at making other meals for himself, on a account of his father refusing him free reign in the kitchen ("That work is for the elves, not someone of our blood"). Draco has gotten around this command by awaking before his father in his youth and feeding the elves a fraction of his meal in order to gain their silence. Draco had always found his father's disapproval of cooking ridiculous and, honestly, quite silly. Potions and cooking were so very similar; which he took an interest in first wasn't very clear. He knew for certain however, that he loved to be able to take individually incomplete things and make something whole, something finished. He loved being able to bring together parts that could become something special. Something unique and exciting.

But the excitement of a new recipe at breakfast time only lasted for so long. He started to fill his time with long shopping trips, careful prodding around London muggle shops, and repairing the unfortunate situation the kitchen had been forced into since Potter had moved into the flat. As one would expect, this pattern was monotonous and eventually got the better of Draco. The meals he shared with Harry in the evenings - twice if he was lucky, once was more common - did little to quell the cyclical sensation that had become commonplace by the second week of Draco's stay. Harry said a grand total of four actual words to him since his first day there (two of which which were "fuck off," uttered when Draco tried to change the channel from a particularly awful muggle reality show about morons in camouflage; the other two were "fuck you," stated irritably for no good reason one morning while Draco was whistling and making pancakes). He began to fall victim to the same emotions — if you could call them that — as Harry. He felt irritable, tired, and lonely nearly every day. It made life drag, and even the comfort of a shelter, food, and steady supply of money was quickly becoming just another cog in the machinery of daily monotony. Harry's depression became infectious, and it was eating Draco from the inside out.

Hermione had visited once on a particularly uneventful day, finding a passed out Harry and Draco sitting idly at the table staring out the window. After a terse conversation about nothing, Hermione had looked at him with a repulsive amount of pity in her eyes. The nothingness which pervaded Draco's days was etched plainly on the lines of his weary eyes. Before he could preach his disgust at the expression she had shot him, her eyes had gone wide with sudden clarity, and she disappeared through the floo without so much as an announcement of temporary farewell. Her bushy hair returned about a half-hour later with a stack of books all the way up to her face.

Draco eyed her strangely and couldn't help but laugh as she stumbled a little, causing all the books to spread across the kitchen table and floor. She stood up huffing and blowing wild brown hair out of her face.

"Ron only really watches the telly, and I really could use a book buddy my age. Molly's interpretation of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ was simply all too fanciful," Hermione said. Draco was stunned to silence in that moment. Hermione lightly bit her lip as she tried to arrange the books into a intelligible pile; she was clearly nervous despite her thinly veiled attempts to hide her wandering eyes and fidgety hands. Draco was so taken aback by the gesture that he remained in silence for a long period of time, unsure how to address the stupefying circumstance of Hermione Granger offering him, Draco Malfoy, an extension of friendship and camaraderie. In the form of books — so many books.

The first thing he noticed about the barrage of literature in front of him was that they were all muggle authors; he had never heard of any of the books or the authors before. His parents, quite expectedly, had had a strict no muggle book policy in their libraries. If he was being honest, he was completely convinced that nothing significant could be found in the thousands of pages dumped before him. The belief that muggle books were simply tripe was not something he was about to simply abandon. This engrained belief was in conflict with the strongest sensation of companionship he had felt in recent memory. Here she was, this unlikely angel in the form of an elegant and poised woman who punched him really hard in their third year, offering Draco's first extension of friendship in years. He couldn't stop the hand that reached to cover his mouth. His lips refused to cease quaking.

Hermione finally arranged the books on the table and looked up at Draco. She was sincerely hoping that this may give Draco something to fill his time with. The guilt that plagued her from taking this lonesome creature and locking him up with an even more fearsome beast was eating her away at night. This was the least she could do to give the blonde boy a reprieve from the stormy seas of his current predicament. And hell, she might even come to like Draco over these books. Imagine that? Hermione Granger growing close to her old rival over that which they competed against each other in for so many years.

Life is chock full of fucked up ironies.

But she wanted this to be good for him. She truly did feel empathy for Malfoy; for the current circumstances certainly, but also for the years since the war ended. She knew life and all its shortcomings had not treated him well. His appearance and desperation on the day they unconventionally reunited were proof enough of that. She hoped one day, in a strange future, they may be able to talk about it as friends. Here they could perhaps start that humble pilgrimage.

She gave him books as an escape. A boat and a river that he could not find on his own.

"I have more at home, too. You're free to come and look at what we have. I'd just let me know ahead of time, because Ron might have a panic attack if he —." Hermione was not able to finish because Draco began sobbing openly into his hand. Harry snored obtrusively from the other room.

And so began Draco's perusal of the great expanse of muggle literature over the past month. Hermione had recommended he start with _A Doll's House_ , a play written by a Norwegian playwright from the 19th century. He surprised himself by finishing the play in one sitting, finding the tale gripping and exciting.

It was of no surprise that Hermione had given him a book with such a fervently rebellious female lead. He snickered at the thought of Granger yelling the lines of accusation and longing through the mouth of Nora, the play's protagonist. Later, when he and Hermione discussed the play's ending, her eyes lit up as she talked about Nora's bravery and adherence to an internally derived moral compass despite facing an oppressive system of sexism and patriarchy. Draco, finding Nora ever-so-slightly insufferable, had to agree that she was certainly the least awful of all the characters in the play. He found it gripping, but he certainly didn't like any of the cast and crew. In the copy Hermione had given him, he left one mark in the book before returning it to her. Slight tick marks could be found around the words of Torvald — the despicable husband to Nora — which read "From now on, forget happiness. Now it's just about saving the remains, the wreckage, the appearance."

Draco wondered if he — like Nora — should forget happiness, too.

He then began turning his eyes to much more after that. He poured over Jane Austen's novels of manners, landing on _Sense and Sensibility_ , _Pride and Prejudice_ , _Emma_ , and even the lesser known _Persuasion._ Much to Hermione's delight, Draco raved about how completely inadequate all the men in the stories were. "Do they not write men to be actual people in muggle books?," he had asked sincerely with a tense overtone of anger. Hermione laughed jovially in response.

"I think you'll find the opposite is quite true, mostly. Maybe I should let you choose on your own what you'll read next."

And so he did. He shivered through Shelley's _Frankenstein._ He puzzled over the myths of _The Iliad_ and _The Odyssey._ He suffered through the meticulous task of reading Herman Melville's _Moby Dick (_ promptly, he told Hermione she would be best giving that book back to whichever store she got it from. She couldn't help but agree). He found himself becoming entrenched in these muggle fantasies, exploring mind landscapes of men and women long disappeared from this world. But it wasn't just the stories that he fancied.

He stayed up all night to read Emily Brontë's _Wuthering Heights_ , loathing the characters but falling in love with the masterful way Brontë crafted words together on the page. He would re-read sentences that he found particularly well crafted, reciting them again and again in his head.

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it."

"I should not seem a part of it"

 _I should not seem a part of it._

When he finished the book, he closed it, looked down at the cover and began reading from page one again.

_

Next came _The Catcher in The Rye, Lolita,_ and _Fahrenheit 451._ He identified all these books to be so much stranger than his first encounters with muggle authors. The first two he found captivating in a much different way than those first round of books he had read. They felt so very human and so raw in their depiction of humanity. The Romanticism of Austen and Brontë was gone, replaced with a harsh realism and uncanny representations of the human psyche. The latter text estranged Draco; Bradbury's work confused him to the point of concern. He returned that book to Hermione unfinished, not intending on picking up another piece by Bradbury again.

"I think that one is written for muggles and muggles only" he told Hermione with a small smirk. She nodded at him in understanding.

"That's fair," she had said quietly, "he's my favorite author, so I thought you'd maybe like some of his writing. But I think I know what you mean." She gave him a funny look before running her hands nervously through her hair. "I suppose there are some themes only us mudbloods can understand."

Draco cringed. She wasn't looking at him, and the coffee prepared for the two of them sat motionless on the table. She hadn't touched it since Draco handed the Bradbury novel back to her. He realized that she did not mean this to be rude. He was not so out of touch with human interaction that he was blind to the vulnerability that Hermione had put forward.

If before Hermione had extended the bridge, it was now Draco's duty to call off the old armies of hatred and mistrust.

He felt the words of apology coming, but they stuck unceremoniously in his throat. He wanted to shout his wrongness, to scream at his former self for such unjust incredulities towards the woman across the table from him. He wanted to take all of it back, but no words would ever convey that feeling correctly. So they stayed stuck in his throat, unable to reach the surface.

Instead, he reached across the table and grabbed the copy _Fahrenheit 451_ from the spot in front of her. She looked at him inquisitively, still running her fretful hands through her unruly hair.

"Help me understand, then."

She smiled at him, and the armies threw down their rusty, useless weapons.

_

Turning to face the wrath, Draco gripped the counter behind him with both hands. Harry stood about a foot away from him with his fists clenched at his sides, fingernails threatening to break the skin in his palms despite being avidly chewed to stubs.

His posture screamed "attack" but his eyes gave away only a deep and unsettling fear. Draco was immediately disarmed.

Which was poor form.

Harry threw a right hook at Draco's left cheek. The blow connected, sending Draco sailing to the kitchen floor. He made a pained yelping noise as his hands awkwardly attempted to catch himself before hitting the ground. Luckily, he was able to land on all fours. Unluckily, this put his in prime position for Harry's left kick to connect with his gut, all the wind in his body leaving in an instant. Harry was shouting but Draco was not certain what he was saying.

His hand shot out to grab Harry's foot before he could connect again. With a ferocious push, he knocked Harry backwards, causing him to stumble awkwardly backwards into the kitchen table, knocking over the chairs in his wake. Draco, much more primed at fighting than Harry was thanks to many scuffles on late night streets, charged Harry before he could stand up from the awkward position he had fallen to upon the kitchen table. He grabbed him by his collar and rammed his back into the closest wall. The paint chipped around Harry's shoulder blades.

The black haired boy gasped for air as Draco drove a hard punch into his gut. Harry would have double over had Draco not then slammed him by his shoulder once again against the now chipping wall. Harry's eyesight went fuzzy as Draco began berating him, a bloody bruise swelling along his cheek.

"You listen to me you fucking prat! I'm trying to fucking help you, whether you like it or not."

"I don't need your fucking help, Malfoy," Harry sputtered. He lifted his leg to give a kick at Draco's groin, but Draco was too quick. He grabbed both of Harry's wrists and turned his face against the wall, arms twisted in a painful hold behind his back.

"That's why I fucking said you're going to get my help whether you like it or not. Try to listen when someone is talking to you, Potter." A painful twist of the arm and Harry let out a gasp of agony.

"You have no idea what I've fucking been through, Malfoy. I don't need your fucking self-righteous pity or your hero complex bullshit!" Harry's words came out sputtering and dripping with saliva.

"You've got some nerve saying I've got a fucking hero complex, Potter. Whose the one still victimizing himself for being the hero? Oh wait, not fucking me. You're the prick who stays inside this fucking flat, convinced that the world cares about you enough to try and take you down. The truth is, you've already gone and bloody done that to yourself. You aren't shit to the world anymore, Harry Potter. Time to fucking get up and move on like the fucking rest of us."

"Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP!"

Harry threw his head back with immense force, taking Draco by surprise. This was - once again - also poor form. The back of Harry's head landed on Draco's forehead, causing Malfoy's vision to go black for a moment. He awoke seconds later on the ground, Harry straddled over his midsection. A left handed punch was milliseconds from contact with his left ear.

Draco willed his body to move, but he felt the cuff hit him before his nervous system could get the message out the metaphorical door. Pain seared across his entire head as his brain shook inside its rattled container. His hearing in the assaulted ear was deafened; this he noticed by the unevenness of the scream he heard himself produced. Desperately noticing the severity of the situation, Draco reached up and grabbed Harry's collar once again. He wrestled Harry to the ground, spinning bodies and a mess of limbs flailing about the kitchen and into the living room space. He managed to get Harry underneath him just before he grabbed his shoulder and shook him furiously against the ground. Harry head hammered against the grounds multiple times, each time a yelp of pain erupted from his battered lips.

"Listen the fuck up, Potter. I'm only going to say this once. I don't very much care for you at all — really, I couldn't give a rat's ass whether you collapsed and died right now — but Hermione does. God save her fucking soul, but she loves you to the moon and back. Her and that gangly red head. They care about you more than anyone has ever cared about me in my entire fucking life. Every thread of my being hates you for it. Do you get that? I hate you for how narcissistic, lazy, and completely insufferable you are. But most of all I hate you for giving up on love. You think I pity you? You don't deserve my fucking pity, Potter." Blood welled up in his mouth, cutting off his speech. He turned his head to the side and spit, blood and saliva landing on the kitchen tile.

"Fuck you, Harry Potter. You think all this world wants to do is take from you when all its given you is fucking blessings."

Harry was frozen on the ground. Both due to the vice grip Draco held him in and his own bitter shame. Draco's words hadn't meant shit to him until he brought Hermione and Ron into it. But that wasn't a fair analysis, because he was the one who had really brought Hermione and Ron into this situation, truly. They were in pain because of his inability. They were suffering because of his fears. They were paying the price for his self-loathing.

And up until this point in time slammed against his living room floor, he had been comfortable drowning himself in alcohol and self-denial to forget he was the origin of their grief.

Draco released his grip on Harry's collar and stood up. "Clean yourself up, Potter. I'm making dinner now. Try not to punch me this time around."

_

They ate their meal in silence on the kitchen table that Harry had been thrown upon not a half hour earlier.

Life is chock full of fucked up ironies, and Draco was living all of them.

Draco had a book at his right that he trained his eyes upon, only half-heartedly consuming the food he had prepared. Braised beef with collard greens lay idly by on his plate. Harry ate cautiously, only offering himself small glances up at Draco. He pushed the food around on his plate for what felt like an era before managing to squeeze words out of his vocal chords.

"I don't think I can do it," Harry whispered to his food, the table, Draco, and the rest of the world. Draco put down his fork but did not train his eyes away from the text in front of him.

Silence crept up again as Harry sat terrified in his kitchen chair, looking more human than he had in years.

"Maybe. But I'll be damned if you don't at least try." Draco circled something in the book he was reading and slid the text over to Harry.

He gave Draco a quizzical look that he could not return because his eyes were trained on his food, suddenly finding it fascinating.

Harry grabbed the text and realized it was not a novel, but instead a collection of poems. The page was opened to a poem by Anne Brontë'. He glanced over the unfamiliar poem but his eyes landed on the dog eared page with highlighted text. It read:

" _Time steals thy moments, drinks thy breath,  
_ _Changes and wastes thy mortal frame,  
_ _But though he gives the clay to death,  
_ _He cannot touch the inward flame.  
_ _Nay, though he steals thy years away,  
_ _Their memory is left thee still,  
_ _And every month and every day  
_ _Leaves some effect of good or ill.  
_ _The wise will find in Memory's store  
_ _A help for that which lies before  
_ _To guide their course aright;  
_ _Then, hush thy plaints and calm thy fears;  
_ _Look back on these departed years,  
_ _And, say, what meets thy sight?_ "

A few stanzas were skipped over and another highlighted section read:

" _O I have striven both hard and long  
_ _But many are my foes and strong.  
_ _My gains are light- my progress slow;  
_ _For hard's the way I have to go,  
_ _And my worst enemies, I know,  
_ _Are these within my breast_."

Once again, a few stanzas were ignored by the highlighter. Two lines at the end of the poem are circled. They read:

" _Press forward, then, without complaint;  
_ _Labour and love- and such shall be thy meed_."

Harry looked up from the text, but Draco still trained his eyes on his food. He showed no sign of looking up.

Harry stood up swiftly. gathering the book in his hands. He walked with purpose to his bedroom, shut the door, and slid down it along the small of his back. He read over the entire poem dozens of times, paying close attention to the circled words.

He cried until he was too exhausted to remain awake, heavy tears smudging the highlighted words on the page. 

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter came a little bit later than the others; I got caught up with planning a trip to New York. I hope y'all liked part II of this project of mine. Please share your thoughts in the review section, favorite if you haven't already, and follow the story if you are invested in my story telling. Also, you should check out Anne Brontë's full poem which is quoted in this chapter titled "Self-Communion."


	7. Tooth and Nail

Chapter 7 - Tooth and Nail

In this war we're always moving,  
Moving on.  
~Andrew Barton Paterson

Ron Weasley was a simple man. He liked chess, firewhiskey with his blokes by the fire, and to lie next to his wife at night before he went to sleep, their shoulders just touching in their own gentle, silent way of reassuring one another that the other was real. At the moment at hand, however, as Hugo wailed that his sister had stolen his to-scale replica of the Hogwarts express locomotive car and Rose refused to eat the roasted potatoes he had spent an hour preparing, he contemplated giving up on simplicity and running away to the circus.

Before this idea developed into something all too alluring, Hermione burst through the door carrying a briefcase and clicking heels that taunted the ground to split in half wherever she stepped. Ron looked up at her, standing there with frazzled brown hair and worn-out makeup, like she held the universe together.

He got up and kissed her on the cheek. "Long day?" she questioned.

"I was beginning to wonder if the Earth managed to stop spinning," he choked out. Hugo began appealing to his mother concerning his toy train, turning a deep shade of red as his frustration grew.

"I'm sorry, Ron. Hugo, hush. I would have been home earlier. But -." Her eyes furrowed and her sentence lost its way out past her lips. She picked Hugo up and shushed him while bouncing him on her hip. She forked some of the roasted potatoes on the table into her mouth, starving for something to fill her stomach. Rosie suddenly found the potatoes fascinating, wishing in every way to imitate her elegant mother — even in the basic task of consuming unappetizing foods. Hugo grabbed onto one of Hermione's pearls from the necklace around her neck, finding them much more fascinating than his previous fixation on the missing train. His whining ceased, and Rosie was shoveling potatoes into her mouth.

Ron fell in love with her all over again, for what must have been at least the third time that day.

"But?" He asked innocuously.

"I stopped by Harry's again."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Hugo looked from his mother to his father and then back to his mother again. "You were with Uncle Harry? Is he feeling better, mum?" Hugo's question was filled with childish innocence that Hermione couldn't help but smile at him. Ron had a concerned look on his face as he took his seat at the kitchen table. Hermione remained standing, Hugo still bouncing happily on his mother's hip.

But something was different. Ron noticed the way his wife's eyes seemed confused, rather than the typical flurry of sadness and pain that she garnered from a trip to their best friend's flat.

"Is everything alright? Malfoy hasn't gone and done anything….Malfoy-like has he?" he asked slowly. He grimaced as the name "Malfoy" came off his tongue. Hermione had gotten an earful from him when she had told him about the whole Malfoy-Harry fiasco, but he had consented when she remained adamant weeks after her decision. That didn't change the fact that it made him wholly uncomfortable. He hadn't terribly enjoyed visiting Harry's flat as of late; having Malfoy there made him avoid it like the plague had struck.

Hermione's logic didn't really make sense to him, but she turned out to be right pretty much every time she opened her mouth. Living with the beautiful woman standing across from him was a life-long exercise in humility that he had no intention of opting out of. The circus would have to wait.

"Ron, when was the last time you saw Harry laugh?"  
_

Draco awoke to no air in his lungs. He gasped quickly to realize the air quickly found its way back into his body, the initial surprise caused by the dropping of a book onto his gut. With fear in his eyes, Draco sprung up from the couch to ward off his assailant. His rapidly darting eyes found their target standing directly across from him, a figure to behold.

"Well aren't you a tall drink of water," Draco hummed. Harry's hair was every which direction, his eyes bloodshot red. The black lines underneath the green forest in his irises and puffy shape to their home cued Draco that Harry hadn't gotten much — if any — sleep the night prior. The book Draco had been rudely awoken by slid to the ground. He glanced at it, recognizing it as the text he had handed Harry the night prior. The pages were curled and frilled where they were not the night before. Instead of staring at Harry's foot-away-from-death eyes, he eyed the book suspiciously.

"Why are you here?"

The question was simple, really. Draco had no right to be as confused as he was, but that certainly didn't stop him. He looked up at Harry with desperate but innocuous confusion.

Harry rolled his pained-looking eyes and stared him down before reiterating. "Why are you here?"

"Potter," Draco began in low, husky voice, "I have been in this bloody flat for a whole month and you are just now asking this question?"

"Now's as good as ever," Harry breathed. His expression did not change. It looked strained, but also tired. Not tired in the sense of a man who had gotten no sleep (even though that was clearly true), but tired in the sense of a man who had all but given up on the pleasure of being awake.

"Look, Potter. I just woke up and I don't think I'm ready to get into this just yet. Can't we wait until I eat something or —"

"No. Tell me right now." The immediacy in Harry's voice shocked Draco. Not because it was enraged in tone, as he would have expected, but rather because it sounded earnest. It was refreshing, truthfully; he had been beginning to suspect that Harry had no other emotions besides self-pity and fitful rage. He thought the better of his immediate reaction to scoff at Potter and roll over on the couch and find unconsciousness once more. Instead he inhaled deeply and caught Potter's eyes with his.

"Okay. But I'm starving. I think better while I'm working with my hands, anyway." Draco stood up and Harry followed him to the kitchen. He pulled out a skillet, eggs, bacon, and a slew of other breakfast foods from the cabinets one at a time as he spoke. Harry watched him dutifully, chewing the inside of his left thumb.

"I've been doing a lot of sitting and trying-not-to-think-about-it lately, so the timeline is a bit fuzzy. But I suppose I should start from the trial for any of this to make sense."

Draco took a glance back at Harry. His face was stoic as he stared at Draco getting together the kitchen for breakfast. He took one big breath before turning to face his supplies. He did not look back at Harry once as he began his tale.

"Immediately after the trial we were escorted back to the manor by two Aurors from the ministry. We were not to leave the grounds of the manor for the next two years according to the terms of prosecution. The Aurors traded rounds, but there were always two of them on the premises at all times (a horrible waste of money, if I do say so myself). My father and mother were inconsolable for the first month of our sentence. Mother remained in her bedroom, separated from my father. I barely saw her during those first few months at the manor. She refused to leave her room, and often I could hear her wailing and sobbing from her bedroom if I wandered too close to her room. I learned quickly to avoid those hallways in order to keep my sanity. My father….well I learned to avoid him, too. He was furious all the time. I could feel him walk into a room, because the temperature would — honestly — drop as soon as he entered it. There were many times that he would start cursing and yelling at nothing in particular, and it was then that I became very glad that none of us had wands to cause any real damage with. Not that it stopped him, however."

Draco raised lifted the back of his shirt. Several clear scars etched his back. Draco could not see Harry's expression, but he didn't really care what he wore on his face in that moment. These scars were his, and he'd be damned if he was going to allow them to turn him into a tragedy. They weren't a cry for help; they were evidence of his trial by fire. The were not indications of a weakness, but instead righteous poems of victory. They were his feathered headdress, his medal of honor, his living funeral pyre of a life gone by and left to ashes.

Draco dropped his shirt and continued. His eyes still did not wander behind him.

"By the sixth month, we had all found a routine. Mother would wander down like a ghost only once each day. She'd wave her hands at the elves and they would make her tea and biscuits. I think that's all she ate during that time. She grew gaunt and frail. I couldn't stand to look at her. My mother was withering away before my eyes. I think that's when I first decided that I would leave the manor the moment the two year sentence was up. My mother had resigned herself to a slow death, and I couldn't bear to watch it become her. Whenever I tried to talk to her she would only vaguely look as if she was listening. Speaking to her was like talking to a woman on her death bed who had already resigned to her fate. Maybe she had. We had nothing on the other end of the two year sentence. The outside world would simply be another encounter with an isolation of a different kind. Maybe she was just smarter than my father and me. Who knows?"

Draco had the pan sizzling at this point. He laid the strips of bacon meticulously one by one onto the pan.

"I spent most of my time writing. Mostly about nothing maybe about everything. I get the two confused nowadays. But there was no one to talk to in that horrible building that we called a home; it was my only real way of communicating, even if it was with no one in particular. My father spent his days in his study, plotting and scheming his return to the public. My mother and I were both hopeless on the matter. He seemed obsessed with it. I didn't tell him that, though. That is until he decided I would be his keystone piece in his little project."

The bacon sizzling was now the background noise of the kitchen as Draco cracked eggs, sliced bread loaves, and ground lemongrass inside a pestle and mortar. He ground his teeth through the remainder of his speech, straining not to bite off his own tongue.

"He decided the best way to return to the public was to marry his son off into a well-off family high in the ministry's cabinet. The idea was that if he couldn't save his own reputation, he could at least salvage something for the Malfoy name if I just hurried up and spawned children as soon as was obviously hopeless. Every request he sent for formal courting was either fiercely denied or adamantly ignored. At first I didn't want to participate in the madness on principle; I wasn't going to marry anyone that I didn't want to just so we could repay my father's sins."

Draco put the pestle down. He look heavenwards before continuing.

"And mine."

He flipped the bacon, a huge pause in his speech pervading the kitchen. It's funny, really, how the silence felt like the most palpable thing he had experienced that morning. Draco tried to gather his train of thought again, only barely finding his footing before speaking again.

"But after a while, I only disagreed with my father because I began to hate him with every fiber of my being. I didn't even really care about principles at that point. I was blinded by unadulterated hatred. Between the violence, his neglect of my mother's failing health, and his disgusting obsession with a surely fruitless task, I saw nothing but an empty man, grasping daily at his last straws of success and social status. I didn't care about any of that. After the trial, none of that seemed to matter. It was pathetic, I realized, to care about it at all. It was so fickle. We were so fickle. The only thing that mattered was survival. Whatever it took to stay afloat, I grasped at it. Except once—"

He stopped. Something seemed to cause his body to convulse forward, almost in a retching motion. He grabbed the tongs to remove the bacon from the pan, pulling his attention away from whatever direction his words were headed.

"I decided the best way through the mess of an existence I was living in was to appeal to my father's whimsical ideas. He couldn't make any action happen until after the sentence was up, so I decided to play along until then. It made my life a little easier, even if it made me want to vomit just speaking to him. The moment the Aurors left, however, I would be a leaf in the wind. My father wouldn't be any the wiser. He had this ludicrous idea of actually sneaking a love potion to some vile woman in the ministry's higher ups after a few disastrous attempts to court me off. I only pretended to pay attention to the intricacies of his plans; I was immediately put-off by the inelegance of it. My father had lost his touch. Not even his scheming was crafty anymore. Everyone loves a good downfall, though, I suppose."

Draco began divvying up the cooked meats and prepared eggs onto two plates. He finally turned around, a plate of hot food in each hand. To his surprise, it appeared as if Potter hadn't moved an inch. He sat stoically chewing at his thumb. Draco realized that his rapt attention was to invoke his continuance. He placed both plates down and went to grab forks.

"The second year was by far the worst of it all. Mother hardly came down at all. I only saw her once in my last six months at the manor. I think the elves must have been forcing her to stay alive, because she looked like she had a foot in the grave. I think she really died already though; the day of the trial that is. So much of who she was was about who she was connected to. All that fell apart the day our sentence begun. Yeah. I guess some people die twice."

He didn't notice Harry wince at the last sentence.

"I guess I should be more remorseful. But I'm just…numb to it now. When you watch someone let themselves waste away like that, it kills you inside. You have to pretend it doesn't hurt you, because each day only gets worse."

Draco realized what he said was laced with poison. Harry was not too dumb to realize that what he had just said wasn't just about Narcissa Malfoy's fate. Nonetheless, Draco plowed through the remainder of his speech as he sat down at the table.

"It was an eternity of a loathsome existence later that the sentence finally ended. The world around me didn't seem to change all that much. But it was done. Mother still boarded herself up, and father began bringing….some rather tasteless guests to forward his plans. But that would all be moot. The manor was rendered plottable at the beginning of the sentence. Some ministry nonsense about security, but it paid off in my favor. While my father had his guests the night after our sentence ended, I grabbed as much as I could in a bag, and ran for it. In all my father's wildest dreams, I don't think he could possibly imagine me giving up on him."

"The rest is not terribly interesting, unless you'd like to hear about my many misadventures of living in squalor. Eventually I ran out of supplies and I need asylum from my….er, circumstances. Who better than the Boy Wonder himself?"

Draco took a bite of his food, signaling the end of his speech.

Harry stared at him. His eyes were still red, but their intensity seemed to drop off. He appeared hollowed out by Draco's story, completely void of a response to divulge. They sat in silence for a while. Draco wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. Nervous was the first choice. But fear seemed to win over.

He suddenly realized just how much he had given Potter to hold over his head. He was at his mercy for the time being, more so than ever.

Harry remained vigilant and silent as Draco spoke. He didn't make to speak until Draco suggested in some way that he was finished; restraining himself from interrupting proved to be harder than he expected. He had a hundred questions, and all of them started with "sorry."

When Draco began picking at his food finally, he realized it was his time to speak. He wondered what he should say. On one hand, he wasn't remotely concerned with offending Malfoy. He had no reason to be. On the other, Harry was blown away at Draco's vulnerability. He had just spilled himself onto that kitchen table, giving Harry all the ammunition in the world to make him feel like he was nothing.

To make him get up and leave — push the door open into the outside world that had been enemy to the both of them for years. An odd thought occurred to him, then.

 _The enemy of my enemy is my friend._

He eyed the food in front of him; he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a real breakfast. And here it was in front of him. Molly had always gushed that the truest form of love we could show for our fellow man was to prepare them a meal. Appealing to the most basic of our human needs, food had the power to tie people together. Imagine, then, what it could do to the leftover husks of people.

Harry's words were croaking from his throat before he realized he had conjured them. "She must have fallen for the idea of 'Harry Potter,' I think," he found himself staying.

Draco stopped chewing his food and look up to him in confusion.

"Ginny, that is."

"Oh."

"Living with her was fine at first. I'd say we were happy, even. But then she started getting…. annoyed really easily. Everything bothered her. She got frustrated at me for every little thing I would do: putting the hot sauce on the wrong shelf, folding the towels improperly — anything. Did you know there was a right way to fold a fucking towel? I don't think she was actually angry about any of that though. I hadn't been that flawless war hero she had painted in her mind; I couldn't be that, and I didn't want to be that. I think in the end the fact that I 'didn't want to' was worse to her than 'couldn't be.' It was easier to get mad at the little things than to explode over the real problem. It didn't take long before we didn't even speak to each other just because we were terrified of getting the other angry somehow. She wasn't entirely to blame though. I was a horrible husband, really. I didn't work. I had tried the Auror job with Ron that I was offered, but I found it impossible to….focus. Everyone expects so much of you all the time when you've got "The Boy Who Lived" literally tattooed on your bloody forehead. Even then I guess I stopped leaving the apartment often. It must have driven Ginny crazy to see me just….existing every time she came home. I thought that if I did nothing, there could be no expectations to fail. I wanted to disappear. I still do, I guess."

"I thought things would be easier after the war. But they weren't. The looming tension gave me a reason to keep going — to keep fighting. When the dust settled I had to stare at what my life was, and I felt like it just stared back at me."

Harry moved food around on his plate.

"I think we're still in a staring contest today. Now it's a question of who's going to look away first."

Draco licked his lips and wiped his face with a napkin.

"You broke your own rule," he said slowly. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

"'Rule number three: don't ask me about Ginevra ever again'," he mocked, pulling on one of three extended fingers with his other hand.

Harry stared at him before grinning. It was only for a small moment that the expression lasted on Harry's face, but Draco felt a spike of excitement in the pit of his chest at the sight of it.

What had Bradbury said in that short story? " _Progress stops for no man_ "

Harry was chewing his food now, speeding his pace with each bite. He stopped mid-chew to speak: "I've never been a fan of following the rules."

Draco snorted. "You could try one rule on for size: chewing with your mouth closed," Draco gestured with his fork at Harry's lips. They snapped shut at the suggestion, causing Draco to exhale sharply out of his nose in mirthful surprise.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence, an appreciated emptiness that was louder than the grit of apology formed from tooth and nail.


End file.
